The Devil in Devon
by Deklava
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story is a sequel to "Promise to the Living". If you haven't read it already, I recommend that you do so, as this opening chapter picks up where the closing chapter of the prequel leaves off. Many thanks and much love to my beta, **chasingriver**.

* * *

><p>John's eyes closed seconds after his head hit the pillow. He was so exhausted that the room spun. Mycroft was beside him, reclining against an avalanche of pillows and tapping lightly on his laptop keys. In the suite's sitting room, beyond the closed bedroom door, John could hear Sherlock pacing about, reading the case file for the millionth time and muttering to himself.<p>

John sighed in relief as the paracetamol kicked in. He'd needed an extra-strength dose after spending four hours in a small rental car with the Holmes brothers bickering nonstop. He hadn't heard Lestrade return to the suite yet: the former DI was probably still in the hotel pub, indulging in beer and barmaids to forget the nightmare.

Four hours. That's how long it had taken them to drive from London to the Royal Clarence Hotel in Exeter. John understood why they hadn't traveled via a more expedient or comfortable method, such as government helicopter or town car: if Black Cell or another subversive group was, as Mycroft suspected, behind the mysterious footprints that appeared in Woolsery two weeks ago, their arrival in Exeter had to be low-key. On the other hand, if Lucifer himself was actually back after an absence of almost 160 years, as paranormal groups trumpeted, John didn't want to give _him_ a heads-up either.

Although he accepted the need for caution, the drive had left John with a headache that sent him to bed soon after checking into their three-bedroom suite. When he heard the soft click of the lamp being turned off and felt the mattress dip as Mycroft settled next to him, he grumbled into the goose-down pillow, "Was it really necessary?"

The elder Holmes didn't ask what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, John. Sherlock can be terribly intractable."

"He was only half the problem. You were just as intent on having the last word."

"Naturally. My brother has to learn that he can't have his way all the time." Mycroft shimmied across the mattress until he was pressed tightly against John's back. His lean arm settled around John's bare waist. "I am sorry that our fraternal spat wearied you. I assumed that you were used to our interactions by now."

John threaded their fingers together and smiled despite his fatigue. "I thought so too. But four hours of listening to you and Sherlock fight about this case, the weather, and the price of petrol raised the bar. Hell has been redefined."

Mycroft kissed his shoulder. "Good thing you never saw us growing up. Such confrontations went on around the clock."

"Lord." John shuddered. "I don't know how your parents kept any hired help."

"Me neither. Perhaps that's why Father's wine cellar was constantly depleted," Mycroft sighed. "Still, Sherlock _was_ unusually vitriolic this afternoon. I suspect it was because of this." He waved his hand over them both. "Like I've already told you, he'll be insecure about our relationship for awhile, John. Brace yourself."

"I know. This is hard for him to handle. I'm his best- actually, he says _only_- friend. You're his 'arch enemy' on a bad day. I think he's still trying to figure out how this happened."

"So are you."

It was true. John had known Mycroft for almost as long as he'd known Sherlock, and he hadn't always held him in high regard. For the first two years of their association, he'd seen the elder Holmes as a pompous nuisance who spied on and occasionally manipulated both Sherlock and John. Then, last year, Sherlock was forced to fake his suicide and disappear to protect his friends from James Moriarty's wrath. John, alone and unaware of the unwilling deception, fell into a grief-fuelled depression and planned his own death. Mycroft forcibly intervened, setting off a chain of events that led to forgiveness, healing, friendship, and finally a love that surprised everyone involved.

"Yes," John admitted. "When we first chatted in that warehouse, I wasn't exactly thinking about kissing you. Ever. Now it's all I want to do."

"I feel the same way. You're the best thing that's ever happened to Sherlock, and now me." Mycroft squeezed his hand. "He _will _come around, John."

"Well, it's not like we haven't taken steps to reassure him."

John and Mycroft had promised Sherlock that very little would change on the surface. John would remain at Baker Street, and now that their detective agency paperwork had gone through, he and Sherlock would be working on cases together once more. Like this one. But Sherlock still clung to John like an anxious and petulant child and sniped at his brother more than usual. He knew he had to share, but refused to be graceful about it yet.

Before the conversation could continue, a knock sounded at the door. John started to rise, but Mycroft stopped him.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I've found a pattern in the witness statements. I need to talk to John."

"John is resting. I'll join you." Mycroft tossed the duvet aside and got up.

"No. I need John. I think better with him listening. You just try to trump my conclusions."

"Only when your reasoning is flawed, making it necessary. Which is woefully often."

John groaned. He suspected that Sherlock's intrusion had nothing to do with the case file.

"I'm not talking to you, Mycroft," Sherlock warned.

The elder Holmes approached the door anyway. "Then it will have to wait until morning. John's tired."

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. "It's all right. I'll go see what he's found."

"No, it's not all right." Mycroft extended a restraining hand and reached for the doorknob. "My brother is going to learn-"

A dull roaring noise drowned out the rest of his words. Then a fragrant, smoky substance billowed under the door and completely enveloped Mycroft, making him choke.

It took John a moment to realize what Sherlock had done. Anticipating his brother's actions, he had poured talcum powder on the floor and blew it under the closed door with a hair dryer.

It was juvenile. Spiteful. But watching the normally dignified Mycroft Holmes swear like a lorry driver and bat frantically at his face and pyjamas sent John into peals of laughter. He was still howling when Sherlock threw the door open, a towel pressed to his nose and mouth, and barged through the haze toward the bed.

"Come on, John," he grumbled. "We've wasted enough time. You need to see-"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be interrupted: Mycroft tackled him and threw him onto the bed. "You idiotic child!" he sputtered. "When are you going to grow up!"

Sherlock, who had fallen across John's legs, propped himself up onto his elbows. "Only after you stop being so easy to fool, taking the fun out of it."

Lestrade appeared in the doorway. "What's going on?" he slurred. "If you lot are having a row, count me out. One punch-up's enough for me tonight. I'm going to bed."

The former Yarder's silver hair was rumpled, as were his clothes. He didn't appear to be injured, but John jumped off the bed and approached anyway.

"You had a fight with someone?" he asked. "Who?"

Sherlock and Mycroft stopped struggling and sat at attention. Talcum powder coated both of them now and streaked the dark red duvet, but their fight appeared to be forgotten.

"Dunno who he was. Tried to nick my wallet in the Gents', so I floored the bastard. He ran, though."

"Actually, he wasn't trying to nick anything," Sherlock said, staring intently at Lestrade.

"What do you mean? Of course he was. Stuck his hand in my pocket."

"That's because he was trying to give you something," Mycroft supplied. He rose, trailing rose-scented talc in his wake, reached into Lestrade's open coat, and took out an envelope. "This."

Sherlock didn't attempt to snatch it from him: he was too busy doing an excellent impression of a greyhound with a mechanical rabbit in its sights. "How long ago was this?"

"Ten minutes ago, at most."

The detective's eyes lit up. "Brilliant! That's why that man was running."

"Wait a minute," John interrupted. "What man?"

"I was looking out the window roughly ten minutes ago and saw a man hurrying out of the hotel across the courtyard." Sherlock pushed abruptly past Lestrade and strode toward the suite's entrance. "Mid-thirties, wearing a jacket that was a rather nauseating shade of green?"

Lestrade turned. "Yes! You saw where he went?"

"Not only that, I believe he's still there." Sherlock opened the door and disappeared into the hall.

John, who had scented an upcoming chase the moment Sherlock got _that _look in his eye, had already slid his feet into his shoes. Now he hauled on a T-shirt and told Mycroft, "I'll go with him." When the elder Holmes nodded and held the envelope to the light, John ran out of the bedroom, grabbed his coat from its perch, and followed Sherlock. He had no idea where they were going, but that was nothing unusual.

He was following Sherlock into another potential minefield, and he loved it.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the lateness of the hour, people were still strolling outside the hotel. Heads turned when Sherlock and John burst through the front doors and paused under the canopy to catch their breath. When John bent over and braced his hands against his knees, he realized that he still wore his pyjama bottoms.

"There," Sherlock exclaimed eagerly, pointing. "The pub at the end of that street."

"How do you know he's still there?"

"Because that's him standing outside, smoking."

John looked. A youngish man stood among the pub's empty outdoor tables, puffing on a cigarette and talking into a mobile. He glanced toward the hotel, saw his pursuers staring at him, and paused. After hurriedly concluding his conversation, the man disappeared into the building.

"That's odd. It's like he's expecting us to come after him," John mused.

"Then let's not keep him waiting." Sherlock sprinted down Cathedral Yard. John shook his head before following. People jumped aside to give him a wide berth: with his hair uncombed and coat flapping open over his T-shirt and pyjamas, he looked like an escaped mental patient. John hoped that he wouldn't be stopped by the local police; whenever he and Sherlock were separated during a chase, catastrophe usually resulted.

As they neared the pub, Sherlock said breathlessly, "There must be a side entrance in that alley. Go mind it. I'll go inside and keep him from escaping through the front door."

"Right." John figured that Sherlock should be safe enough in the pub, which still had customers. "I'll wait a few minutes, but if you don't come out, I'm going in."

The younger man grunted assent before charging through the pub's open door like a fox storming a henhouse. John rounded the corner of the building and entered the alley.

A dark, silent delivery van was parked in the narrow passage. John slid past it, wincing when his coat brushed against the filthy brick wall. He saw the side entrance just ahead, bathed in a dim glow from the grimy overhead light. As he crept toward it, he patted his coat pocket to confirm that he'd brought his phone. If he and Sherlock got in over their heads, he wanted to be able to call Mycroft and Lestrade.

When powerful fingers closed over his left arm, John cried out with surprise, but a cloth stuffed hastily into his gaping mouth silenced the sound. Strong arms encircled his middle, pinning his elbows to his sides. He saw two more shapes glide out of the shadows. One bent over to seize his legs while the other assailant tugged his coat off one shoulder. John saw the glint of a syringe in the man's hand.

"Calm down, Dr. Watson. We don't want to hurt you."

John had no idea how these people knew who he was, but curiosity and confusion took a back seat to dread. Their arrival in Exeter wasn't so covert after all. He –and probably Sherlock also- had been lured into a trap. What about Mycroft and Lestrade? They were probably safe in the hotel, but the moment they left to investigate his and Sherlock's disappearance…

No. He had to escape, and warn them. Capture was _not_ an option.

John flung his head back, connecting with his captor's chin. The man hissed in pain and loosened his grip, enabling John to break free and fall to the filthy ground. The sudden, harsh drop winded him so severely that he couldn't jump up and run as intended, allowing them to seize him again. During the struggle that followed, he hurled his body sideways so violently that the men holding him stumbled and his left temple collided with the alley wall. Pain exploded behind his eye, followed by bright lights, nausea, and the sensation of sinking into quicksand.

As he lost consciousness, he had only two thoughts.

_Is Sherlock safe?_

_Mycroft… help me._

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><p>When John came to, he was in so much pain that a weak moan escaped his lips. He heard footsteps approach and tried to open his eyes, but the searing brilliance of the overhead lights forced him to shut them again.<p>

"I imagine you must hurt quite a bit," a man said. He had an Eastern European accent. "I'm sorry about that, but you did bring it on yourself."

John wet his dry lips. "I didn't kidnap myself."

"I'm sorry for that too, John. But you're very important to our future plans, so please relax. We're not going to harm you."

The use of his name reminded John that he'd been kidnapped by design. "Why me? And where's Sherlock?" He opened his eyes a fraction and tried to sit up, but padded cuffs on his wrists and ankles restricted him to a semi-reclining position. He felt the sharp sting of an IV in his left hand, and observed that he was lying in a hospital-style bed, restraints attached to the raised side railing. The room was a sterile white and empty except for the bed and a side table. Four people- three men and a woman- hovered over him.

"Sherlock Holmes was not picked up," one of the men stated. "We have no use for him."

John was not reassured. "Where is he?"

"I understand that he returned to the hotel when our agent eluded him and he failed to find you."

John grimaced as he imagined what Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mycroft –God, _Mycroft_- must be going through right now. To stave off his own distress, he focused on his captors.

The men ranged in age from thirty-five to fifty, while the woman was in her early forties. John's gaze travelled in reluctant appreciation over her honey-coloured hair, attractive and intelligent face, and curvy yet athletic figure. Observing his scrutiny, the oldest man- the one who had been speaking earlier- chuckled.

"You see, Elena? You complain about growing older, but men still cannot resist you."

She smiled tightly, her green eyes surveying John with equal intensity. It was like she was sizing him up, but for what purpose?

"You still haven't told me why I'm here," John said. The severe throbbing in his left temple, where he'd struck the wall, forced him to lie back down. "Or who you are."

"My name is Sergei. You've already noticed Elena. My colleagues here are medical men like you. Dr. Nevo and Dr. Malikov." He nodded at each of them in turn. "They will be helping me transform you."

"What the hell does that mean? Transform me into what? A fucking pumpkin?"

"All in good time, John. You merely need to know that when we're done with you, you will be stronger, _better_, than you were before. And Mycroft Holmes will be dead."

John went cold all over. Ignoring the pain, he shot as far upright as the restraints allowed. "_What?"_

Sergei turned to the two men. "Now that he's conscious, run those pre-program tests. And give him something for the pain."

They nodded and approached the bed, but John's roar halted them in mid-step.

"Stay away from me! Don't touch me." He glared at Sergei. "I don't know who you're with or what you imagine you can do, but I'll never help you. I _will _help Mycroft though, by issuing the death certificates when he's done with you."

Sergei grinned and winked before exiting the room, sending John spiralling into fury and panic. The two doctors resumed their approach, but Elena remained in place, watching him with a cryptic expression. When she crossed her arms, John spied a large gold ring on her right hand: its insignia was a U symbol that resembled a horse's hoof.

Or a devil's footprint.

When Dr. Nevo took a blood pressure cuff out of the bedside table and attempted to wrap it around their prisoner's bicep, John tried to head-butt him. Now that he knew he was important to these people, he gave himself permission to be as violent and uncooperative as possible. Dr. Malikov planted large hands on John's shoulders and forced him back onto the bed. He shouted, cursed, and struggled like a rabbit in a snare.

"This isn't working," grunted Nevo, who tried –and failed- to attach the cuff. "Hold onto him. I'll have to sedate him."

The hands on John's shoulders responded by increasing the painful pressure. He stared wildly as Nevo took a pre-loaded syringe from the table drawer, removed the cap, and injected the contents into his IV port.

"What is that you're giving me?" he exclaimed, eyes widening. "I've likely got a concussion, you bastard! And you're _sedating_ me? That's contraindicated for a head injury! What fucking cereal box did you get your medical degree from!"

"It's a mild dose, and you need it, Dr. Watson."

"Don't tell me what I-"

He would have said more, but his vision started to liquefy. Then his consciousness followed suit. As he sank into a drugged oblivion, the last, fear-packed thought was for Mycroft.


	3. Chapter 3

When John woke up, his first thought was that he'd been unconscious for a long time. His muscles felt limp and heavy and his mind was foggy. A muted throbbing in his left temple advised that if he weren't so drugged up, he'd have the headache from hell.

One thing he _did _feel acutely was nausea. Breathing deeply through his nose, he tried to calm his roiling stomach, but to no avail. When saliva flooded his mouth and his jaw started shaking, John struggled to turn partway over and avoid asphyxiating himself.

_Fucking Russian doctors…._

An emesis bowl appeared suddenly beneath his chin, a split-second before he was violently sick. When there was nothing left to bring up, he collapsed back onto the bed and groaned without sparing a glance for his attendant. He heard water running somewhere to his left, followed by a cool, wet cloth being applied to his sweaty face.

"I'm sorry to see you so ill," a woman said. "Those two were a little heavy-handed with the drugs."

Her voice was warm and made slightly husky by an Eastern European accent. John turned his head on the pillow and saw Elena gazing down at him. Behind her stood a variety of machines, all of them connected to John via electrodes that covered his chest. He observed that the IV was still present, as well as the restraints.

"Thanks," he rasped. "For cleaning me up, that is. The rest of your hospitality is shit." To illustrate his point, he tugged at the leather wrist cuffs. Their metal fastenings clanged noisily against the bed rails.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "If I said the worst was over, I'd be lying."

John grimaced. "At least you're honest. I don't suppose this is the part where I finally learn why I'm here?"

"You're an important part of Sergei's plan."

"Which is?"

"All in good time," she said, echoing her colleague. Regarding him thoughtfully, she added, "You must really mean a lot to Mycroft."

John opened his mouth to ask what she meant by that comment. Then something occurred to him. "You called him Mycroft."

Her eyes narrowed. "Isn't that his name?"

"Your friend, boss, whoever that bloke is, called him Mycroft Holmes. You speak about him a lot less formally."

Elena's face assumed the same expression Sherlock's did whenever John walked into the flat and smelled something burning: anxious and furtive. When the door opened, she looked visibly relieved and repeated, "All in good time, John."

Frustrated, he stared past her and saw Sergei enter the room, followed by Dr. Malikov.

"Hello, John," the former said, beaming like a hotel manager greeting a favorite guest. "How do you feel?"

"Like some insane Russians kidnapped me, tied me up, and shot me full of drugs."

Sergei laughed. "Good to know that you're fine."

His glib façade grated on John's already-exhausted nerves. "I am FAR from fine. I want to know why I'm here. And don't fucking tell me 'All in good time.'"

Malikov, who eyed their prisoner warily, muttered something in Russian. Sergei shook his head in reply before saying, "I knew you were important to Mycroft Holmes, but I never predicted this result. I'm quite surprised."

John stiffened at this second reference to Mycroft's regard for him. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you a fan of American history?"

"Not particularly."

"Then you're probably unaware that in 1931, powerful men struggled for control of the New York underworld. Young men like Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello rose up against the Old Guard, slaughtering them and ushering in a prosperous new era. Apparently their counterparts in other American cities followed their example. It was called the 'Night of the Sicilian Vespers'. On a single September night, many senior Mafiosi vanished and were, probably correctly, assumed murdered."

"What's that got to do with Mycroft? Or me?"

Sergei's expression hardened. "A similar purge occurred last night. One that targeted so-called 'enemies of the government.'"

John frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Key personnel in organizations I have dealings with –Black Cell, X7, Amerika- disappeared. I would bet everything I've worked for that these unfortunate men and women are currently unhappy guests of your government, trying to convince Mycroft Holmes that they had nothing to do with your abduction."

John wasn't prepared to believe everything the Russian told him, but something about this announcement rang true. Mycroft _would_ move heaven and earth to find him, regardless of how many bones- or necks- had to be broken. Strong emotions- pride and love- surged through him, allowing him to feel something other than anger or fear for the first time since his capture.

"Well, I reckon you'd better release me then. Because if he doesn't get you, your 'associates' will. They can't be happy about this disaster you've brought on them."

"I agree. Your release will have to be sooner than anticipated. Which means that your program must be accelerated." Sergei regarded him thoughtfully. "Tell me: are you and Mr. Holmes lovers?"

"What?"

"I'd always assumed you were merely a close companion of his younger brother's, but there's a _look_ that comes into your eyes whenever his name is mentioned. And he's definitely taking your disappearance _very_ personally." He beamed. "You were selected because of your military background, John, but this is even better. No way we can fail now."

John tried to sit up, grimacing as the cuffs pinched his flesh. Staring pointedly at Elena's gold ring, he snapped, "That U-shaped symbol means something, doesn't it? You people are responsible for those 'footprints' that appeared north of here. You knew that they would attract Mycroft's attention."

Sergei looked impressed. "Very good. You're correct on all counts. We just didn't expect him to come personally. We thought you'd arrive in Devon alone, since you've been conducting investigations on his behalf for months."

"So why bother with me if he's here? You could have killed him yourselves."

"True. But not without running the risk of retaliation from his associates. We need a- how do you say it- fall guy. You're doing us a favour, John."

"I'm not going to help you, so you might as well kill me now."

"Don't be silly. We're investing a lot in you over the next two days." He nodded toward his colleague. "Dr. Malikov is going to commence the drug therapy now. The rest of the program will follow while you're in a medically-induced stasis. As a soldier, you already harbour an ingrained obedience to a higher authority, so you'll progress much faster than any of our other subjects."

"What other subjects?"

"We've sent assassins after Mycroft Holmes before. None of them were successful. But I have every confidence that you will be." He took a step backward, nodded at Elena, and said, "I will check on you later."

The blonde woman gave John another enigmatic stare before following her associate out of the room. Despite his mounting anxiety, he wondered what her role was in this entire operation. She'd referred to Mycroft with more familiarity than Sergei did. Was there significance there?

When the door closed with an ominous click, Malikov went to a medicine cart beside the heart monitor, opened a drawer, and took out three pre-filled syringes. John wanted to ask what was in them, but knew he'd never get an answer.

His righteous fury was dissipating, only to be replaced by fear. Whatever was in those vials wouldn't be lethal. But considering what Sergei's plans for him were, he wondered whether death wouldn't be preferable.

_Maybe you were right, Mycroft. Caring is not always an advantage…. But I couldn't help it where you were concerned._

Malikov donned latex gloves and approached. Yelling would be futile, and getting away was impossible. John was forced to lie there, using a stoic exterior to hide his terror as the stone-faced doctor poked the first needle into his IV port.

* * *

><p>John wished he could remember what exactly had been done to him.<p>

He didn't _feel_ any different, aside from sore muscles and bruised limbs. Sergei explained that during the 'programming', he had convulsed and thrashed in his restraints. "You fought admirably, John. But I'm pleased to say that we achieved our goal. Tomorrow you'll be returned to your friends and your… to Mycroft Holmes."

Dr. Nevo sneered. John would have given anything for a free limb to plant in the man's face.

"And then what?" he demanded.

"You'll simply await activation."

So that was it. He'd been altered mentally. Programmed, just like they'd said, to be a sleeper agent. What was the trigger that they'd chosen to ensure Mycroft's destruction? An innocuous word? A carefully timed letter or phone call?

Icy horror gripped him. How could he ever be alone with Mycroft, or even see him again, now that he'd become a ticking time bomb? Tears pricked his eyes, but he forced them back, refusing to let them see him break down.

As he surveyed the eager, satisfied faces of his captors, John wondered desperately if he could provoke them into killing him somehow, before he could harm the person he loved. But since there was little chance of that happening, he resolved to disappear at the first available opportunity after they released him.

Like Sherlock had.

And there was little chance of his ever coming back.


	4. Chapter 4

When they left, John trembled with the effort it took to keep his emotions under control. He wanted to thrash about and curse his captors until his voice gave out. But one key tenet of his military training held him in check – never let the enemy see your fear. So he laid there for hours in the dimness, stoic expression hiding a turmoil that would have driven a weaker mind insane.

He accepted that he'd never be able to identify the 'activation key': that word or object that would turn him into an assassin. He could only try to avert the danger.

Sergei would ensure that he was delivered directly to Mycroft. The only way to prevent disaster would be to slip away quietly as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The very thought of reuniting with Mycroft, Sherlock, and Lestrade, only to have to disappear again afterward made his heart clench. Sherlock had vanished to save his friends once, but John had never been able to let logic completely subdue emotion. He'd be more destroyed than those he left behind.

He clenched his fists. The tragedies he'd witnessed in Afghanistan had prepared him for implacable enemies and senseless loss but _this _- this represented an advancement in malicious warfare. John could not imagine a worse fate than being an unwilling automatic weapon against someone he loved.

The door opened. John raised his head off the pillow and watched Elena enter the room. "What do you want?" he snapped, lips pulling back from his teeth.

She raised a finger to her lips. "Please lower your voice. Sergei will be coming for you in twenty minutes, so there's not much time."

John glared. "Unless you're here to tell me how to undo what your associates have done to me, you can go to hell."

"That's what I'd like to talk to you about."

John hesitated. Unlike her colleagues, Elena never gloated or spoke to him condescendingly. Her face was solemn, but John detected something soft, even compassionate, in her eyes. Relaxing only slightly, he said, "I'm listening."

"I want to make a deal."

For the first time, hope glimmered. "Deal?"

The blonde woman glanced over her shoulder at the still-open door before approaching the bed until she was close enough to lean over him.

"You were right," she said. "About being familiar with Mycroft."

"Go on."

Elena lowered her voice. "Fifteen years ago, I was with a group under surveillance by MI6. In retrospect they were pathetic plotters with a careless agenda, but membership paved my way to more formidable organizations. Not long after I joined, government agents raided one of our meetings and my comrades and I were taken. We were interrogated rather harshly."

"You mean beaten."

She nodded. "They soon gave up on me because I have CIPA. As a doctor, I presume you know what that means."

John did know. CIPA –or congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis- was a rare genetic disorder that disabled one's ability to feel pain. When he nodded in the affirmative, she continued.

"Mycroft was Chief of SIS at the time. When he found out about me, he questioned me personally, and read my entire life story in less than five minutes."

"Yes, he's rather good at that."

"He deduced –quite correctly- that I wasn't committed to that group's ideals. So he offered me an alternative to imprisonment or execution. Working for him."

"Are you telling me that you're a double agent?"

Elena smirked. "No. But I played the part for awhile and even convinced Mycroft."

"You've lost me."

"You don't need to know my personal history from its inception, John, and there's no time for a detailed explanation of my political beliefs. Suffice it to say that I'm not in sympathy with the British government, and never will be. And Mycroft never realized it until after he got too close. Literally. In case the drugs have slowed your perception, we were lovers." She stared at him. "Mycroft Holmes is one of those people whom you initially dislike, and then unexpectedly fall for. I suspect you know what I'm talking about, if Sergei's correct."

John flinched but managed to whisper, "Go on."

"When I 'terminated' my services at MI6, I didn't realize that I was pregnant."

John's jaw dropped. "You're saying you had his-?"

"I delivered a son nine months after I was last with him," she interrupted. "Yes. And before you ask, I know my child is his. Mycroft was the first –and only- man I've ever slept with. I prefer women."

Her revelation transported John back almost two years, to that volatile conversation with Irene Adler in the abandoned building. Irene had insinuated that despite their respective sexual orientations (she was gay, John wasn't), Sherlock Holmes had captivated both of them. Now he was having a similar conversation with another beautiful woman, about another Holmes. It was like something out of an espionage tale. Or a Lucifer Box novel.

John wasn't entirely sure he believed her. Mycroft _felt_ things more than Sherlock did, surface appearances to the contrary, making it possible that the elder Holmes had been fascinated enough by this woman to drop his guard as well as his trousers. But Elena was a self-proclaimed insurgent and opportunist, making him suspicious of anything she said.

"I had no intention of ever telling Mycroft, or even letting him know indirectly," Elena went on. "But recent developments made me rethink that position. I have terminal cancer, John. Six months to go at the outside. When I die, my son –who is fourteen- will be claimed by Sergei and trained for life in the organization. I overheard that a week before you were picked up."

"Does Sergei know who the boy's father supposedly is?"

She took no visible offense at the 'supposedly'. "No. He knows I was temporarily under Mycroft's control: that's why he used the devil footprints to attract his attention. Mycroft gave me this ring, an antique originally created to commemorate the devil's appearance in Devon in 1855. It was his idea of a joke, because my code name in the original group was 'Diabel', or 'devil' in Polish." She raised her hand, watching the light play off the ring's U-shaped insignia. "But I've always presented Alexei as the child of a deceased comrade." She crossed her arms and stared at the wall, biting her lip. "I understand that Sergei plans to use disaffected youth as front-line combatants. I don't want that for my son. If he decides to support my ideals when he's old enough to understand and appreciate them, I would be proud. But at fourteen he's nothing but a pawn. Like you are now."

John let his head fall against the pillow and shut his eyes until the dizziness passed. It was all so much. _Mycroft might have a son he never knew about. Good God…._

"Here's my proposition, John. I don't know what exactly went into your programming, but I can find out. When I know for sure, I'll contact you. And in exchange, I want you to tell Mycroft about my son. His son."

"Tell him that the boy exists?"

"And where to find him. A trusted friend will give you the particulars after my death."

John raised his head again. "There's something I don't understand. You don't want your boss- who believes in the same things you do- to bring up your son, but you have no problem with Alex-"

"Alexei."

"_Alexei_ coming under the protection of a man who represents everything you despise?"

"I already told you: I will not see my son sacrificed for ideals he is not old enough to appreciate. Mycroft will keep him safe."

"And when he's eighteen or older?" John shot back. "You hope he'll kill his own father?"

She hesitated, even looked troubled. "Kill? No. Change for the better? Yes. Alexei is an unnaturally intelligent boy. I look at him and I see a better future. So tell me, John, do we have a deal?"

John's answer was lost in the sudden explosion of gunfire and screams. Then he heard a man's voice, strong with authority, rise above the uproar.

"Spread out and search the premises for him. John! JOHN!"

Mycroft.


	5. Chapter 5

Elena's face registered alarm and disbelief. "Mycroft," she breathed. She turned slowly toward the door, making John wonder if she actually planned on staying for a reunion. But when the running footsteps outside drew closer, she pivoted and manoeuvred around the bed, heading toward the opposite wall. While John watched, she pushed on one of its panels until it swerved inward.

"I'll be in touch," she promised. "Remember- we have an agreement."

Before John could answer, Elena opened the portal wide enough to slide her slender frame through. Just as it closed, Mycroft appeared in the doorway, flanked by six armed men in bulletproof vests and dark clothing.

Even in the midst of chaos, Mycroft Holmes looked like a gentleman. He wore his trademark three-piece suit and a custom-tailored overcoat, his only concession to danger being a Kevlar vest and the Glock G18 that he clenched in his gloved fist. When he saw John, he exclaimed, "Oh, thank God!" To the men, he ordered, "Look behind those machines and under the bed."

Four of the silent gunmen searched the room, weapons ready. When one gave the all-clear, Mycroft strode toward John.

"Are you all right?" Without waiting for an answer, he pocketed the gun and started to undo one of the wrist restraints.

"Don't!" John exclaimed.

Mycroft stilled. "What's wrong?"

"Please," he begged.

The older man's eyes narrowed. "You know it's me, don't you, John?"

"Oh God, yes." As if there was any doubt: John's heart was hammering in mingled joy and dread. "But listen- they've done something to me. Changed me."

Mycroft's voice remained calm and reassuring. "All right, all right. May I have a look at you?"

"Yes. But please be careful."

The elder Holmes gently pushed up the sleeve of John's hospital gown and drew the blankets away from his feet. "Damn," he muttered, "They've run a hibernation agent programme on you."

"You- you can tell?"

"You have multiple needle marks in your arms and severe bruising on your wrists and ankles and probably your chest as well. All clearly caused by convulsions instead of struggling. Judging by the pinkish hue in the whites of your eyes, you've been given a drug I'm unfortunately all too familiar with." Mycroft touched his shoulder. "We'll deal with this, John. You'll be all right, I swear it."

"You have to keep me restrained, Mycroft. I don't know what my trigger is. All I know is that when it goes off, I'll try to kill you."

The elder Holmes smiled sadly. "I understand the danger. But we're equipped to deal with this without leaving you in restraints 24-7." Turning to his men, he said, "Bring all prisoners currently in custody to this room. Immediately."

Three of the bodyguards hurried into the hall while the others maintained sentry positions around their boss.

"Now, John," Mycroft said slowly, "where did the woman go? I smell perfume, and the scent level suggests that she departed immediately prior to my arrival."

Knowing that Elena was long gone by now, John nodded toward the panel that doubled as a hidden door. "Through there."

One of Mycroft's men pushed on it, but the portal remained shut. "It appears to have been locked from the inside, sir," he reported.

"Was there anyone else with her, John?"

"No."

"Was she involved in the actual programming?"

"No, I don't think so." John swallowed, still trying to process the fact that Mycroft was there, leaning over him with that air of unassailable confidence. Despite his anxiety, relief and affection flooded him. "Sorry, I know I'm acting erratically-"

"It's all fine. I'm proud of you, actually." He grasped John's left hand and held tight. "Not many would have survived what you did with their minds intact."

John squeezed back. He wondered if Elena, who had apparently escaped, would still be able to help him if Sergei and the others were captured or dead. He also asked himself whether she had told him the truth about her past with Mycroft. He had to find out, but not now. Now he was too full of contradictory emotions and feelings: relief and worry, exhaustion and excitement. It was all he could do to stay coherent.

"Where's Sherlock?" he murmured.

"Back at the Royal Clarence, tied to a chair in his room. Gregory's keeping him company. Ever since you disappeared, Sherlock refused to let me out of his sight. Quite right- he knew that if I tried to slip away, it would be to retrieve you." A fond sigh. "My brother is brilliant, John, but in a volatile situation like this one, he's a liability."

Despite his weariness, John chuckled. "Thanks. You did the right thing."

Their commiseration over Sherlock's recklessness was interrupted by the return of the three agents sent on prisoner retrieval. They herded six men into the room- four roughed-up goons and the two doctors, Nevo and Malikov. Recalling the torture he'd experienced at the hands of the latter, John recoiled, a reaction that did not escape Mycroft. After a final hand squeeze, the older man turned away from the bed and sauntered over to the bruised, angry Russians.

"I'm sure you know who I am by now, gentlemen," he said pleasantly. "After all, you programmed Dr. Watson to be my undoing. And that makes me most displeased with both of you."

"They have a boss," John croaked. "His name is Sergei."

Nevo's lips trembled before he unleashed a volley of abuse in Russian. Mycroft heard him out, and then responded in the same language, keeping his tone genial. He only broke out of character when the physician responded to his questions with a sneer. Then his lips tightened fractionally just before the Glock butt smashed into Nevo's cheekbone. Malikov cringed at the crunching noise and ensuing scream, and pleaded in Russian.

"It appears," Mycroft said, "that Sergei has escaped." Facing one of his men, he ordered, "Find out if McLean has picked up anyone outside."

"I don't know about McLean," a deep voice said, "but I found someone."

"Dear God, is there no containing him?" Mycroft muttered just before Sherlock, accompanied by more of his brother's agents, breezed into the room, holding Sergei's arm tightly. Lestrade gripped the other arm, looking apologetic. When the ex-DI met Mycroft's stare he opened his mouth, but the elder Holmes sighed and waved one hand.

"It's fine, Gregory. I know what you were up against."

"Mycroft," Sherlock declared, "looks like I've remedied one of your oversights yet again. When will you learn? You-" He broke off when he saw his flatmate on the bed. "John! Are you all right?"

"Relatively."

Sherlock rounded on Mycroft. "Why is he still tied there? You're almost as thoughtless a boyfriend as you are a brother."

Although glad to see his best friend again, John was also indignant at that remark. Sherlock didn't appreciate, or care, that almost everyone in the room was either an employee or enemy of his brother. He was about to reprove the younger man when Lestrade beat him to it.

"Sherlock, now is not the time."

"Do shut up. You're not in a position-"

The younger Holmes would have said more, but Sergei had taken advantage of his escorts' distraction. The Russian elbowed Lestrade in the gut, doubling him over, and broke Sherlock's grip. Before anyone could react, he hooked his arm around the detective's neck, snatched the folding knife that Sherlock always carried in his coat pocket, and pressed the blade against his prisoner's throat.

"I'm leaving now, Mr. Holmes," he said to Mycroft. "And if you or your agents try to stop or follow me, your brother dies."


	6. Chapter 6

"Well, well," Mycroft said, his voice a deadly shade of calm. "Sergei Ragulin. Congratulations. I'd long assumed that you were dead."

"Assuming is a dangerous pastime, Mr. Holmes. It leaves a man vulnerable when he least expects it." Sergei jerked his elbow up slightly, making Sherlock redden and gasp. "Just ask your brother."

John, lacking the finesse (or the patience) to threaten like a gentleman, shouted, "Don't you hurt him, you fucker!"

"I don't intend to, John. Provided that my associates and I are allowed to leave safely." The Russian stared at Mycroft. "Tell your men to take the bullets from their weapons and scatter them on the ground. You have five seconds. Fail to comply and I'll slice this young man's throat."

Mycroft stepped forward. "Let's dispense with the five seconds. Go ahead. Do it."

The loaded silence that followed was broken only by Sherlock's laboured breathing. When Sergei spoke, John detected an anxious undercurrent in his voice.

"Don't play with me, Holmes. I _will_ kill him."

"Yes, I'm quite sure you mean what you say. Now do it."

Sherlock, who'd been staring frantically at his brother, suddenly relaxed. John knew something was going on but had no idea what. Cold sweat collected on his forehead, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the glinting blade that pressed against his best friend's neck.

Mycroft took another step. Lestrade, who'd jumped to his feet, began a slow and cautious approach. Sergei's widening eyes flashed from one to the other. Then he swore in Russian and drove the weapon into Sherlock's neck. John shouted and lunged forward, but the restraints sent him tumbling back to the mattress.

Instead of killing Sherlock, the blade retracted, disappearing into the handle.

Lestrade was on Sergei in an instant, slamming a broad fist into his face and knocking him to the ground. Sherlock was dragged down along with him, but easily broke free and skipped back a couple of steps. He was so excited that the air around him practically vibrated. When Lestrade hauled their reclaimed prisoner back to his feet, Sherlock grabbed a fistful of the man's filthy shirt and declared, "You failed to take my brother's meddling into account. Don't worry, everyone does. He even fooled me this time."

"Fuck you," Sergei hissed.

Sherlock ignored him. "Where's my real knife, Mycroft?"

"Safely hidden away. Since John disappeared, you've been in no fit state to carry sharp objects. I'll return it to you when we're back at the house." Mycroft approached Sergei, who had gotten himself under control and now regarded his captors balefully. "I'm very concerned about John Watson, Mr. Ragulin. Once he's comfortably settled, I'm going to visit you at your new quarters and you're going to tell me what went into the hibernation programming."

"I don't think so."

"They were part of it too." John nodded toward the two physicians. "If he doesn't talk, one of them will."

"I'm sure they will, but they don't have the information we need. Now that I know who instigated this, it's safe to say that these gentlemen only ran the program and kept you alive during the more devastating effects. They don't know what the trigger is."

"Neither will you," Sergei said. "Until it's too late."

The elder Holmes merely smiled. "Gentlemen, take all prisoners to containment. I'll be in touch."

Lestrade let go of his prisoner's arm after two of Mycroft's agents secured the man's wrists with plastic cuffs. John wondered what was going through the former DI's mind. Surely he knew that Sergei would never leave custody alive. But judging from his impassive expression, he either approved or contented himself with the fantasy that a lifetime in a military prison would be the Russian's ultimate fate.

"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Holmes," Sergei said suddenly.

"Interesting comment. Any particular reason?"

The man nodded toward John. "I'd always assumed you were a ladies' man. But clearly your affinity for blondes transcends gender. At any rate, I'm pleased to say that it will be your undoing."

Mycroft didn't respond, but John saw his back stiffen. Lestrade shoved Sergei's shoulder and growled, "That's enough out of you." Sherlock added caustically, "John is not just any blonde, you bloody fool!"

Mycroft jerked his head sharply toward the doorway, and his men obediently led their prisoners out. When they disappeared from view, the elder Holmes returned to John's bedside, and touched his shoulder. "I'm going to untie you now so we can move you out of here. A medical team will meet us at the house."

"House?"

"I've rented a property outside Exeter. It's been serving as a command center of sorts while we searched for you. But time for questions later. Let's get you out of this vile place."

He reached for one of the wrist restraints. Again, John cringed. "Mycroft…"

"John. Look at me."

He did. Mycroft's mouth was a tight line, confirming that Sergei's parting words had irritated him, but otherwise he was that same bastion of confidence and calm. John relaxed slightly but implored, "Please be careful."

"Of course."

Sherlock and Lestrade approached, silent but supportive. When Mycroft undid the first wrist cuff, the younger Holmes gripped John's hand in a manner meant to be more reassuring than restraining. "I won't let you hurt Mycroft," he said awkwardly, trying to make a joke. "That responsibility is mine alone."

When John sat up, Lestrade had him place his hands atop his head before patting him down. "Looks like they didn't plant any weapons on you," he pronounced gently. "I don't see any need to cuff you. Besides, my mum could kick your arse right now."

"You're likely right, Greg." John slid his feet to the chilly floor and stood, but the prolonged bed confinement and accompanying physical ordeal left him unsteady. He swayed, and would have fallen completely if Sherlock hadn't grabbed him around the waist. "Shit!"

"Here." John felt strong arms slide across his back and behind his knees. When Mycroft lifted him up, he was too exhausted to protest. Reassured that he was harmless in his current state, John closed his eyes. He mentally logged their footsteps on smooth tiles, doors opening, and cool air playing with his face and bare feet.

John knew he had passed out when he opened his eyes again and found himself in the back seat of a government car, leaning against Mycroft. He sat up in surprise and looked around. Except for the driver and a bodyguard riding up front, they were alone.

"Did I fall asleep?" he exclaimed.

"I believe so. You even snored slightly."

"Mycroft, please. You shouldn't be alone with me."

The elder Holmes smiled, but his expression was wistful. "John, I've been alone with men much more dangerous than you are right now."

"It's still not safe."

"You were a soldier, John. When you came back to London after being shot, you moved in with my brother, and now you're with me. I'm surprised you remember what being safe is like." He gazed out the window at the Devon countryside. "I know I don't."

"I'd never forgive myself if I hurt you."

When Mycroft answered, his voice was thick. "I don't believe anyone's ever said that to me before."

John paused. "Me neither."

Their hands met and clasped.

They drove in silence for awhile. When house lights appeared in the distance, Mycroft said quietly, "So, what did you think of Elena?"

John was gobsmacked. How had Mycroft known or even guessed-

Then he began to shake all over. He jerked away from Mycroft and watched in horrified fascination as his fingers curled inward, turning both hands into fists.

"Oh, Christ," he choked just before he leaped for Mycroft's throat.


	7. Chapter 7

John had survived a car accident once. He had been in the front passenger seat, screaming at the beer-addled driver to hit the brakes, pull away, do _something_ to avert a collision with the oncoming lorry. But yelling hadn't been sufficient to prevent the chaos that followed.

Now, as he doubled Mycroft over with a sharp knee to the gut and seized his throat in a crushing grasp, John's mind shrieked at him just as frantically as he'd appealed to his friend that day: _Stop! What are you doing? You'll kill him!_ He clenched his teeth and groaned, but could not break his hold. He was no longer in control of his own actions.

Mycroft sank to his back on the carpeted floor, John straddling his chest and squeezing so hard that his knuckles threatened to burst through the skin. Their eyes met: Mycroft's were wide with alarm while John's bulged with horror.

Suddenly pain exploded between his shoulder blades. His back arched in an agonized spasm and he relaxed his grip long enough for Mycroft, who'd dealt him a vicious knee jab, to shove him aside, roll over, and reverse their positions. Now John was lying on his back, with the older man pinning his wrists to the floor and sitting on his upper thighs to keep his legs immobile.

"John-"

"Fuck you!" John heard himself scream as he struggled. "You fucking dictator! Murderer! Bastard!"

The car was pulling over.

"It's all right, John," Mycroft rasped. Sweat dripped off his flushed face and his reddish hair was in disarray. "I know this isn't you talking."

John's next outburst stunned both of them. "Rapist! How dare you say her name? You raped her! Elena!"

_Where the fuck did that come from? _Then he remembered. _Sergei knew that Elena and Mycroft worked together before. He programmed phony scenarios in my brain to make me devastate Mycroft before killing him. Sick, twisted Russian fucker._

Mycroft collected himself quickly. "I know she was there, John. I detected her rather unique perfume at your bedside, and there were other indicators we'll talk about later. She's a remarkable and resourceful woman. But I suspect even she would be dismayed at the speeches that have been planted in your head."

The vehicle stopped. The front doors opened. Then the back doors followed suit, and John was dragged out of the car onto a patch of grass that smelled like dust and petrol. Although he struggled and cursed like a Bedlam arrival, he was grateful for the unyielding grips on his arms and legs.

Mycroft hovered while his men immobilized their prisoner. John stared at him, begging for forgiveness with his eyes while his mouth spouted one vile insult and accusation after another.

Another car screeched to a stop. Footsteps pounded toward them. Then Sherlock and Lestrade joined the circle of faces over John.

"He's been triggered," Mycroft told them. He adjusted his shirt collar, but not before both men saw the vivid finger marks on his throat.

"Fuck," Lestrade lamented. "John, mate, do you know who we are?"

"I know _what_ you are. Deluded sycophants backing a megalomaniac."

Sherlock faced his brother. "Do you know what the trigger word is?"

"I believe so."

"Can you fix him?"

When Mycroft replied, his eyes were on John. "I won't sleep until I do."

"I won't sleep until you're dead," John heard himself snarl back.

He would have said more, but Sherlock had dropped to one knee and clasped John's head in his gloved hands. Luminous grey eyes searched his face as if the pores and lines contained a clue to the programming reversal.

"John." Sherlock's voice and grip were equally firm. "Look at me. Not at him."

He tried, but his stare gravitated back to Mycroft automatically. "I'm going to kill you," he spat.

Sherlock moved, blocking his brother from John's sight. "Look at me," he repeated.

Having no alternative now, John obeyed.

Sherlock's gaze was quicksilver bright. His irises seemed to shimmer, like fragmented glass in the sun. John felt a vague floating sensation, as if his essence was disassociating from his body. Alarmed, he broke contact, but Sherlock said urgently, "No, John. Keep watching my eyes."

Lying there on the dusty grass, lost in his best friend's hypnotic stare, John felt his earlier fury and hysteria receding. His heart rate slowed and his rigid muscles relaxed.

"That's good," Sherlock encouraged. "Your subconscious has been programmed to make you behave violently toward Mycroft when you hear the trigger word. I can't emulate their methods entirely, but I believe I can achieve a similar effect."

Lestrade crouched. "You're going to hypnotize him, Sherlock?"

"I did study hypnosis once. It's a fascinating tool to control lesser minds. Mrs. Hudson let me experiment on her, and her Mick Jagger impression was quite amusing. Now, John, you're already in a waking trance brought on by the trigger word. I'm going to take you deeper to temporarily nullify it."

Although unable to see him, John could feel Mycroft's presence. The air thrummed with a psychic energy that he only sensed when the elder Holmes was tackling a problem. He ground his teeth and his heart rate picked up speed again, but Sherlock's piercing stare seemed to be keeping another rage explosion at bay. Daring to hope that this might work, he forced himself to focus on his best friend.

Sherlock kept talking, but soon John could no longer make out what he was saying. The warm drone of that deep voice made him drowsy. He was melting into the ground, too lethargic to fight or make another attempt on Mycroft's life.

He'd never been so glad to fail at something….

The next thing John knew, he was on his feet. Sherlock held his arms steady while Lestrade attached metal cuffs to his wrists. Two of Mycroft's men stood nearby. "What?" he exclaimed, blinking and shaking his head to clear it.

"It's for your own protection, John," Lestrade said. "You'll ride back to the house with Sherlock and me."

"Where's Mycroft?"

"He's gone on ahead. He'll meet us at the house. We all decided it was safer."

Sherlock scrutinized him. "How are you feeling now?"

John took inventory and answered, "My head hurts, but I don't feel like I'm on remote control any more. What did you do?"

"Made you associate a word with standing down, and then used it on you. It worked: your anger receded and your rational mind appears to have reasserted itself. It's only a temporary solution until Mycroft's people figure out what's been done to you- you could easily be triggered again."

"Fuck," John breathed. It made sense that hypnosis would extract his mind from the murderous rage he'd been in, but instead of feeling relieved, he acknowledged that he was little more than a puppet at the mercy of hidden forces he could not fight on his own. Gritting his teeth, he kicked at a pile of dirt and roared, "God fucking damn it!"

Lestrade gripped his shoulders. "John, this is a shitty situation, but you have to believe in Mycroft. He can undo this."

John shook his head slowly. Mycroft. The man whom he loved yet tried to strangle only minutes before. "You're going to have to keep us apart," he said miserably. "What if there's more than one trigger word? Those sneaky fuckers likely concocted a backup plan in case I failed the first time."

"I don't often laud my brother's so-called accomplishments," Sherlock said, "but he has performed the occasional miracle in the past. In this particular instance, I doubt he'll sleep until a solution's been found."

John knew he was right, but still felt too discouraged to hope. Now that the crisis had passed, he ached to see Mycroft. Barely a year ago the elder Holmes had prevented a grief-shattered John from committing suicide and helped him rebuild. Another abyss now loomed, but this one demanded that he keep his distance from Mycroft, thereby snatching that source of comfort and security from him. From both of them, really.

John hung his head. He hoped that he was stronger than he gave himself credit for.

They escorted him into a nearby car. Lestrade and Sherlock sat on either side of him while one of Mycroft's men sat up front. The man watched him continuously in the rear view mirror, which made John even more acutely aware of his condition. He kept his cuffed hands in his lap and stared out the window, wondering where Elena was, and if she could possibly help him now. He didn't see how: Sergei was in custody and from what John had seen of the man, he'd die before he let Mycroft win.

He thought about what she'd said about having Mycroft's child, a boy who was now fourteen. Should he mention it when he had no proof she was telling the truth?

"Look up there," Lestrade said suddenly. "What's he doing?"

"I think I know," Sherlock answered.

John followed their stares. To his amazement, Mycroft stood by the side of the road, leaning on his umbrella and watching their approach. When the car slowed, he strolled over, as if he were on a London street instead of a desolate patch of Devon countryside.

The driver rolled down his window. "Sir?"

"I decided to wait here and ride with John after all," the elder Holmes answered. Without waiting for any response or protest, he opened the rear passenger door, slid past Lestrade, and sat next to John.

"Mycroft-"

The umbrella tumbled to the floor as strong arms drew John close. "Anyone who wants to separate us is going to have to try a lot harder than this," Mycroft whispered against his hair.

John sank against him, needing comfort too badly to be cautious.

During the remainder of the ride to the country house, even Sherlock was oddly quiet.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** A million thanks to everyone who's been faithfully reading and reviewing. Your interest and support keep me/ and the story- going. -Deklava

* * *

><p>By the time Mycroft and John were alone in their room, the faint blush of dawn was brightening the eastern skyline.<p>

Calling it a "room" was an understatement- at 2900 square feet, it reminded John of a Knightsbridge luxury flat. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked a brilliant rose garden. The Regency-style furniture was hand-crafted mahogany and of a quality that made one feel guilty using it. Gold-framed oil paintings and mirrors covered the walls. The only visible concession to modernity was the flatscreen television and Mycroft's laptop, which sat on the desk in the study area amidst an avalanche of papers and folders.

After taking it all in, John headed automatically for the bed while Mycroft lingered at the door to speak to the bodyguards. Medication and fatigue left him barely able to stand, and the giant four-poster with the blue and gold duvet and cascade of plump pillows was too inviting.

As he began undressing, John noted with relief that his fingers remained steady. During the car ride to the manor, his cuffed hands had jerked and twitched nonstop. Sherlock's intervention had calmed his mind, but his body apparently had other ideas. Mycroft had arranged for a doctor to be at the house when their convoy arrived, and when the man noticed the uncontrolled movement, he gave John a lorazepam tablet, which induced relaxation without lethargy.

"I think you should stay on this dosage until the situation is resolved, Dr. Watson," he advised, and John readily agreed.

During dinner, John told Mycroft, Sherlock, and Lestrade everything he remembered about the ordeal. They listened without comment, although Sherlock jumped away from his untouched plate and silently paced whenever he needed to think. John was grateful for that. He needed to talk and vent, not submit to a well-intentioned interrogation. That could come later, after he'd rested.

When referring to Elena, he started to say "the blonde woman", but Mycroft suggested quietly, "Let's use the name 'Diabel'. It's what I used to call her." Then he gazed out the night-blackened window and relayed the story of how they had met and their subsequent short-lived working arrangement. It essentially matched Elena's version, except for the intimacy and, of course, the alleged child.

Now, hours later, Mycroft and John were alone at last. Feeling too exhausted to shower, John stripped down to his pants and crawled under the covers. He felt mildly anxious as the elder Holmes closed the door and approached, but acknowledged that the chance of there being more than one trigger was slim. There were also bodyguards outside, just in case.

When Mycroft took a pair of silk pyjamas from the mahogany chest-of-drawers and walked into the bathroom, John turned his head on the pillow to watch.

"You always do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Go into another room to change."

Mycroft peered around the doorway. "Does that bother you?"

"Bother? No, but-" John hesitated. "Well, maybe. Why can't you do it here?"

The other man's eyes lowered. "I shall if it makes you more comfortable, John."

"Makes _me_ comfortable?" John sat up. "Are you saying you're _uncomfortable_ with me watching you undress? Why? I've seen you naked before."

"I know, but that's only been when we were making love. Imperfections are forgivable then."

"What?" Surprise made John temporarily forget his anxiety. "Come out here."

Mycroft stepped back into the bedroom, still holding the folded pyjamas in front of him like a shield. Watching the uncharacteristic reticence, John had to remind himself that this man had been the scourge of the terrorist element only the day before.

"Why are you so hesitant? Is it because I won't find you attractive if I'm not primed to shag just about anything?"

Colour flooded Mycroft's cheeks. "It wouldn't be the first time it's happened to me, John. Having a model-quality younger brother does foster certain insecurities."

"You've seen me at my most vulnerable," John said gently. "Now I want to see you."

Mycroft swallowed heavily before lifting his chin, nodding abruptly, and laying the pyjamas aside so he could loosen his tie. John had never seen him so uneasy before, not even when he was hooked up to Sebastian Moran's death machine or chaperoning Sherlock and John's post-Reichenbach reunion. Piece by piece the outer trappings of wealth, refinement, and power were removed, neatly folded, and laid on a chair until the elder Holmes stood before him, naked and shivering lightly from the night's chill, or something else.

Objectively speaking, John could see why Mycroft was insecure about his appearance. He'd seen Sherlock naked before – coming out of the shower or submitting to medical treatment- and had to admit that his best friend had a flawless body. Mycroft's was comparatively imperfect: pale, freckle-dotted skin, very little body hair, and a waistline thickened by middle age and yo-yo dieting. But John heard himself saying, "You're beautiful" and meaning it.

Mycroft stared at him, scrutinizing him for any sign of indulgence or pity. Seeing none, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Come here," John whispered, now aroused despite his fatigue and post-traumatic anxiety. When Mycroft came close enough, John clasped his hand and drew the covers back further. "Please- come to bed like that. Don't get dressed."

"All right." Mycroft climbed onto the bed, crawled across the mattress, and settled beside him. John pulled the blankets over them both.

"I'm glad we're alone now," he said. "I'm so sorry about this afternoon. I realize that I wasn't acting voluntarily, but I could have really hurt you."

"It's all fine."

"No, it's not." John rolled onto his side and tipped Mycroft's chin up. "Your neck is still bruised a bit."

"Just more to add to the collection." Mycroft linked his fingers with John's. "I've been wounded more than most soldiers, John. No offense. This really is nothing. I'm just happy to have you back. When they took you, I had to summon unimaginable levels of willpower to keep functioning."

They rested in silence for awhile. Then John murmured, "Sergei said you conducted a vespers while looking for me."

"Vespers?"

"He used that word to describe a purge. Of the terrorist element."

"Yes, I did, and that's one good thing that came out of this, I suppose. I had the drive to eradicate problems I should have dealt with long ago."

John didn't cringe at Mycroft's description of human beings as "problems." As a soldier, he knew they existed, and solving them was difficult, but necessary. So he said, "Good."

"I knew you would understand. Not many people do. They demand that Britain be kept safe, but when we fight the enemy on the only terms that ensure success, they decry us as monsters."

John nodded. "I ran into idealists like that when I returned from Afghanistan. Soldiers are people you either hero-worship or hate."

"Or love." Mycroft's warm lips brushed his cheek.

The word made John blurt the question he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to ask. "Did you love her? Diabel?"

A pause. Then Mycroft said, "She told you everything then."

"Her version of it, anyway. Is it true? You were lovers?"

"Yes." The elder Holmes lifted himself onto one elbow. "I'm curious, though, as to why she'd share that information with you."

"I suppose you'd have to ask her." John shrugged and did his best to sound convincing. "Maybe it was part of the overall plan to play with my sensibilities and turn me against you." He couldn't say anything about her alleged son, Alexei, yet. He wasn't going to present Mycroft with such a life-changing revelation until he knew more.

"Perhaps. But if that's the case, she's changed. Diabel was never the type to use mental cruelty as a weapon." Mycroft settled back onto the mattress. "She was much more refined. Subtle. All in all, a remarkable woman, and the only person to ever escape from me completely." He paused. "You asked me if I loved her, and the answer is no. It was never like that. Mutual admiration. Nothing more. If more people on my team had her brilliance, I'd sleep better at nights."

"What if you catch her again?"

Mycroft hesitated before answering. John could see him imagining the scenario and pondering the final outcome. "You're asking me what would happen to her? It would depend on how dangerous she is now."

Before John could say anything further, he spotted a small square-shaped light dancing in the darkness outside. Something- or someone- was in one of the trees. He sat up quickly, and Mycroft followed suit.

The elder Holmes reached under his pillow and extracted an automatic pistol. Before he could aim it, the light stopped moving and a larger one- from a torch- appeared. It illuminated Sherlock's narrow face, which was twisted in a sheepish grin.

John didn't know whether to laugh or throw something at the window. Sometime after dinner concluded, Sherlock taken it upon himself to do extra bodyguard duty and climbed the tree. The light that John had seen dancing about in midair had come from his mobile screen.

Mycroft's reaction was swift. He yanked the covers over his bare chest and- to John's amazement- gave his brother the finger. Sherlock's laugh was inaudible through the triple-glazed window. Then the younger Holmes pretended to put his finger down his throat, and when Mycroft scowled, John did laugh- hard.

He mentally blessed them both for restoring an ability he wasn't sure he'd ever have again. The danger was far from over, but John's mood had elevated enough for hope to set in….

Then Mycroft's mobile rang from its perch on the chest-of-drawers. The ringtone belonged to only one person, who would never dream of calling at this hour unless it was urgent.

Anthea.


	9. Chapter 9

John sipped at the caramel-coloured froth on his pint of Guinness. Beside him, Lestrade nursed a glass of Tribute ale and eyed the blonde bartender appreciatively. The pub was full of tourists and locals taking a midday break. Somewhere in the crowd, John knew, were the two bodyguards that Mycroft had assigned to follow and protect them during their outing.

"Look at all these people, Greg," he said as he put his pint back down. "Most of them don't have anything more serious to worry about than the price of groceries and petrol. I should be so lucky."

"If you were, you'd be bored shitless within a day."

"I know, damn it. Still, at times like this, I wish for it."

"Yeah, I know. It was the same for me at the Yard. The press, the public, the politics: it all got to me more than once, but I wouldn't have had it any other way." Lestrade looked at his watch. "I imagine that Sergei bastard is in serious pain right about now."

Anthea's predawn call had been in response to her boss's order that any prisoner developments be reported to him immediately. She told Mycroft that Sergei had been caught trying to remove an artificial molar with a cyanide capsule in it. The crisis had been averted, but Mycroft wanted to go to the centre at once. John persuaded him to stay in bed for a few more hours. Neither expected to sleep, but to their combined surprise, they dozed off and remained in bed until noon.

Mycroft and Sherlock had dropped John and Lestrade off at the pub before proceeding to the containment centre. The brothers had decided to combine their deductive talents (and violent tendencies too, if necessary) to get information out of the contrary Russian, who was determined to deny them victory. To pass the time during their absence, Lestrade had suggested going into Topsham, a historic estuary that was now part of Exeter, and John assented. He needed to visit a chemists' anyway, as he'd written himself a prescription for more lorazepam. He didn't like the idea of self-medicating, but it was the only way he could relax while alone with Mycroft.

"John," Lestrade said as he signalled for another round, "how are you doing, mate, and I mean _really_?"

"Really?" John lifted his eyes from his glass. "Can't you imagine, Greg?"

"Doesn't matter if I can or not. I want to hear you say it."

Those calmly spoken words reminded him why he'd always liked Lestrade. The former Yarder was temperamentally stable, although Sherlock preferred the word 'boring', and John needed some stability right now, as well as someone to talk to.

"It's hard to explain, Greg. My life stopped being normal the moment I met Sherlock and like you said, most of the time I love it that way. I expected to be injured now and again- that's nothing a soldier isn't mentally prepared for during training. But I never once expected what Sergei did to me: turned me into a walking weapon." He breathed deeply to calm his growing agitation. "When I realised what he had done, I planned to run away, to avoid seeing Mycroft and endangering him. If you all hadn't found me first, I likely would have done it."

"It's a good job you didn't then. How would you have survived? Slept behind skips and begged for money? That's the only way you'd have stayed off Mycroft's radar." Lestrade shook his head. "Christ, John, when you went missing he was like a man possessed. He didn't go into hysterics- that's not him- but he didn't eat or sleep, and was always on the phone or jumping into cars in the middle of the night. Even Sherlock was worried, if you can believe that."

"I can, actually."

"You're lucky to be with Mycroft, you know." Lestrade eyed him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.

"Yes, I am, for a variety of reasons. Be specific, Greg."

"So many police officers see their marriages end in divorce. When I was at the Yard, we threw parties for those who made it past the five-year mark. Your job comes first, you work crazy hours, and forget about making plans: I've lost count of how many Christmas dinners I missed with my ex-wife because some yobbos turned a pub fight into a street brawl. Your spouse can never be sure that you won't be in a body bag at the end of your shift."

Lestrade paused as the waitress laid two more glasses before them and removed their empties with a sweet smile. He grinned back and winked. When she left, his sombre expression returned.

"Nice girl- hope she stays away from cops. Anyway, John, I don't mean to sound facetious, but not many relationships would have survived what happened in the car yesterday. Mycroft didn't even suggest separate beds last night, did he?"

"No. I'm actually the one who's had the reservations and fears."

"You lucky bastard." Lestrade leaned toward him. "He's seen you at what's possibly your worst, and he _stayed_. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"Yes, I do." John's heart swelled. "I don't know why he forgave me so easily, but I'm bloody grateful."

"He forgave you so easily because he knows it wasn't your fault. And there's nothing you can do that he hasn't seen or experienced a million times over. You can't scare a man like Mycroft Holmes. Not even Sherlock is privy to everything he's seen and done, but I'd bet my shitty pension that he's walked through hell and pissed on the devil more than once."

"I know he has." John recalled the last time they'd made love, before leaving London for Exeter. As his palms glided over Mycroft's shifting back, he'd felt ridges from numerous scars, and shuddered inside. At the same time, he felt Mycroft's lips brush against his shoulder wound, silently confirming what they shared: familiarity with pain and determination to persevere.

He _was_ lucky. Greg was right.

"Would you be interested in anything from the menu, gentlemen?"

When John heard that voice, he froze before slowly turning around in his chair. Standing in a crisply pressed waitress uniform, a pair of menu folios nestled in her graceful arms, was Elena.

"I'll look at a menu, thanks." Lestrade accepted one, flipped it open, and began perusing. John nodded jerkily in reply, unable to tear his eyes away from her cool, lovely features. Her blonde hair was caught behind her head in a loose ponytail, making her look a lot younger.

She handed him the other menu with a mysterious smile. When he opened it, he saw a sheet of paper containing the following message:

_Men's room. Five minutes. Knock four times._

Lestrade closed the folio and gave it back. "I'll have the fish and chips, please."

"Same," John said, returning the menu and its message with a quick nod.

Elena beamed. "Right away, gentlemen." When she walked toward the kitchen, Lestrade's eyes were glued to her rear, which shifted seductively in her tight black pencil skirt.

"Now, _that's_ nice. I like a woman who knows how to age gracefully. Wonder if she's got a boyfriend."

John cringed inside, but managed to keep his reply casual. "She sounds Russian or Polish, Greg. Maybe she's looking for a naïve middle-aged Brit to help her get a marriage visa."

Lestrade chuckled. "You think? If she can cook and last all night in bed, I'll negotiate."

"You're suggesting that _you _can last all night."

"Maybe I could, with an incentive like that."

John kept up the banter, trying not to make his clock-watching obvious. When five minutes passed, he stood.

"I'm going to the Gents'. Be right back. If that waitress returns, try not to slobber."

Lestrade gave him the finger, and John forced a smile. As he crossed the pub and went down the dim hallway leading to the toilets, his heartbeat increased until he could barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears. Elena must have news if she'd hunted him down like this.

The door to the men's toilet was concealed from the pub customers by an aging phone booth. John knocked four times and waited. A second later, he heard the bolt slide, so he turned the knob and slid inside.

Elena leaned against the sink, arms crossed and one long leg bent at the knee. Even in a waitress uniform she looked formidable. Her green eyes examined him from head to toe before she spoke.

"How are you coping, John?"

"As well as can be expected." He locked the door and turned back toward her. "I'm going to presume that you have news for me."

"You presumed correctly. I'll make this fast, so that your companion doesn't get suspicious. Who is he, by the way?"

"A close friend. Formerly with Scotland Yard so yes, let's make this quick."

"Sergei's capture has forced me to use other resources to learn more about your programming." She pushed away from the sink and paced slowly back and forth. "I found out that there's one trigger, and it's a spoken word."

"I know," John replied.

Elena spun sharply about, lips parted. "You know? Did Sergei break?"

"No. Not yet, anyway." He took a deep breath. "I've been triggered already. Mycroft figured out that you were there. He said your name- that was the trigger- and I tried to strangle him. I was brought out of it by hypnosis and I'm on medication now to slow my reactions-"

Her eyes had widened at the words "triggered already". Her hands began waving, making John stop talking. "John," she said slowly, "you've been triggered?"

"Yes." He stared at her face, which was now a mask of dismay. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "That means the fail-safe has kicked in."

"The what?"

"John, when a sleeper assassin is triggered, it's assumed that they either succeeded in killing their target or failed and are therefore exposed and useless. Either way, Sergei has no further use for them. I discovered that you were injected with a microscopic device- I don't know what else to call it- that travels in your circulation system until activated. Triggering activates it."

John felt cold. "Go on."

"It's a timed explosive. Thirty days after activation, it will go off, killing the host." Her eyes fell to the floor before returning to his face.

As he listened to those words, John experienced a flashback. He was at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned, Moriarty's explosives strapped to his aching body and red dots dancing over his heart while Sherlock stared at him in shock and panic. That had been his first inkling of how much the younger Holmes cared about him. Now, faced with imminent death again, anguish tore through him.

He wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave Sherlock, leave _Mycroft_.

"There's nothing that can be done?" he whispered.

"I don't know- I don't think so. The explosive is too small to detect and extract. I'll try to find out more, but dear God." Her finely manicured hand went to her mouth. "John, please, even if I can't help you, please help my son."

Before John could answer, the doorknob jiggled. "One moment," he called out, throat sandpaper-dry.

"John? Open the door. Now."

Mycroft.


	10. Chapter 10

While John silently panicked, Elena whispered, "Damn it, Myke, you always did show up at the most inconvenient times." As she rummaged in her server apron, causing change to jingle, she hissed, "Stall him."

John had no idea what good that would do. There was no way out of the men's toilet except through the door. Still, he called out in strangely hollow tones, "A moment, Mycroft."

Mycroft's response was to tackle the lock. He was coming in anyway, it seemed. Then the door swung open and the elder Holmes stood in the narrow entrance, his entire frame taut with anticipation. Seeing John unharmed, he relaxed minutely, but when his blue eyes took in Elena, they widened.

"Dear God," he breathed.

She stepped forward, a softness mellowing her features. "Myke," she said in a voice like molten honey. "You look good."

During the millisecond that Mycroft was off-guard, Elena's arm shot out. John saw her jab a syringe into his neck, depress the plunger, and toss it to the floor in one precise and graceful motion. Whatever its contents were, they worked fast: Mycroft's eyes dulled before he could even exclaim and he pitched forward. She caught him and shoved his heavy weight toward the two bodyguards who hovered in the hallway. Then she seized John around the throat, pinching his neck in the crook of her elbow, and pressed a gun to his temple.

"Step back, gentlemen," she snapped at the guards and Lestrade, who appeared beside them. "Or I will shoot Dr. Watson."

Lestrade crouched and carefully touched Mycroft's neck, checking his pulse. The elder Holmes was slumped in the arms of one of his men, blinking rapidly and muttering under his breath. Judging by his hooded eyes and slowly relaxing limbs, he was losing the battle with unconsciousness. "What did you give him?"

"Nothing he won't sleep off. Now step back. I won't ask again."

As Lestrade and the guards reluctantly obeyed, the latter dragging their insensible boss, Elena manoeuvred into the hallway, holding John in front of her. Forced to lean against her, he detected that they were moving toward the fire exit at the end of the narrow passage. Its steel door creaked in protest as she nudged it open with her hip, and then they were in the parking lot behind the pub, the bright afternoon sun blazing down on them.

"You're going to drive away with me, John," she whispered as she pulled him along. "Once we're a safe distance away, you'll be dropped off."

Lestrade appeared in the doorway, revolver gripped in both hands. When he took aim, John cried, "Greg, don't! She's not going to hurt me unless you make her!"

Lestrade lowered his weapon, distress written all over his face.

John briefly wondered where Sherlock was. Then a car door opened behind him, and Elena slid into the back of a silver BMW. When John collapsed onto the seat next to her, she ordered, "Close the door."

When he obeyed, the car started. As it hurtled out of the parking lot into the quiet Topsham street, he turned to look at the driver. It was a young woman, aged twenty-five at the most, with black hair caught in a severe ponytail and the hard, determined expression of a habitual renegade.

"This is Petra," Elena said crisply. "She's my partner and confidante. She knows everything." She barked something in Polish to the woman, who nodded sharply and stepped on the gas.

"God almighty," John breathed. "You just took out Mycroft Holmes and abducted me in broad daylight in front of an ex-copper and two government minders. No wonder Mycroft never forgot you." Then he remembered the fierce needle jab and his lover's collapse. "What was in that syringe? What did you give him?"

She thrust the revolver back into her apron pocket before crossing her arms and leaning back. "10 mgs of Haldol. I suspected that he might discover us, so I came prepared. He's going to have quite a headache when he wakes up, but otherwise, he'll be fine."

Although adrenaline from their sudden departure still pulsed through John's body, a cold fear now seeped in, dampening its effect. He stared down at his hands, trying to wrap his mind around the reality that unless a miracle intervened, in twenty-nine days those hands would be shredded by an explosion, along with the rest of him.

"John," Elena said.

Numbly, he faced her.

"I'm not going to give up, and nor should you. You have reasons to fight, just like I do. Namely, my son." She paused to address Petra in Polish again. John heard the word 'Alexei' pass between them. Whatever the young woman said in reply must have satisfied her, as she relaxed.

"How can I fight this?" John asked. He clenched his hands and watched the veins pop out in his wrists. Was that microscopic explosive travelling in those very veins right now, so close yet so unreachable?

"You can't, but whoever designed that device probably can." She released her long blonde hair from its ponytail and stared into the distance. "I'm going to find out who that is. The question is how I'm going to contact you when Mycroft will have you under a microscope from now on."

"Why keep hiding from him now? He already knows you're involved."

"He'll take me into custody and separate me from my son."

"So tell him about Alexei. Tell him everything you told me. Let him help."

"I can't."

"Why not? Sergei's in custody. He can't touch the boy now, can he?"

"No, but his associates can, and will." Elena's voice took on a bitter edge. "When it became known that I had terminal cancer, the Consortium placed Alexei in one of our facilities in Surrey. I can see him whenever I wish and even stay there with him when not on assignment, but I'm not free to take him away. They do this whenever agents with children and no immediate family become ill like this. Imminent and certain death makes many people question their priorities, John. Some have rethought their earlier ideals and gone to MI6 to undo their perceived misdeeds. By controlling Alexei, the Consortium has peace of mind where I'm concerned. They've also caught on that he's unusually intelligent. They'll use him after I'm gone, like I told you."

"Mycroft could get him out of that place. You don't need to die before he's told about the boy."

She laughed bitterly at that. "Mycroft is always about duty first and foremost. He wouldn't execute me, because of our shared past and my present illness. But he _will _incarcerate me, and that's not the way I want to spend whatever time I have left. I expect you to hold to our deal, John. You tell Mycroft about Alexei after I'm gone." She paused before adding soberly, "If that's possible, given this new development."

They rode on in silence for another five minutes. When the BMW turned onto a quiet residential street, Elena ordered Petra to pull over.

"You can get out here," she said. "Do you have your phone with you?"

"Yes."

"When we leave, call that gentleman you were with. Tell him where you are."

John opened the car door and stepped out onto the pavement. He turned and said, "I'll be grateful for whatever you can find out about this… _thing_- inside me."

"I will do my utmost. I can't let you die before I do, John. I won't fail Alexei."

She pulled the door shut and gave him a curt nod. Then the BMW moved back into the street and was soon lost to view.

* * *

><p>John didn't remember taking out his phone and dialling. But it seemed that only moments later, Lestrade arrived in a black SUV with three bodyguards.<p>

"John!" he exclaimed as he jumped out of the vehicle. "Are you all right?"

"For the time being. Is Mycroft okay?"

"Out like a light, but otherwise, yeah." Lestrade's expression changed from relieved to troubled. "John, that was her, wasn't it? The woman whose name sets you off?"

"Yes." John noticed that a man who was mowing his small front lawn and woman enjoying a cigarette on her doorstep were watching them curiously. They probably thought he was ill or drunk and being collected by concerned friends. There was no way they could guess the truth, and he envied their ignorance.

Sensing that John was about to collapse, Lestrade refrained from further questions and led him toward the car. But as they got into the back seat, John remembered something. "Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know. Mycroft came into the pub without him. The minder who accompanied us there was apparently taking camera phone photos of anyone who served us or even looked our way, in case one of them might be a recognized person of interest. He forwarded them to Mycroft. Moments after you went into the Gents', Mycroft showed up. He must have recognized that woman."

"Greg…" John ran a hand over his eyes to fight back an oncoming headache. Mycroft would demand an explanation after the drug wore off, forcing him to choose between loyalty to his partner and his promise to a dying woman who might be able to save him. "I know how questionable that looked."

"Questionable isn't the word, John. What's happening?"

"She's helping me."

"And why would she do that?"

"She doesn't want Mycroft to die," John said, honestly. "And she doesn't want me to die either."

"What makes you so sure that you can trust her?"

John eyed Lestrade speculatively. The need to talk to someone was so urgent that his throat ached. The nightmare was worsening. More confused and afraid than he'd even been on the battlefields of Afghanistan, he decided to confide in the ex-Yarder. Instinct told him that he could trust Elena, but experience confirmed that he could trust Lestrade.

Before he could speak, his mobile went off, signalling an incoming text.

_John? Are you there? SH_

"It's Sherlock," he told Lestrade before replying.

_Yes. JW._

_John, the car is slowing down. As soon as they leave, I'll ascertain where I am and text you again. SH._

Lestrade, who was reading over John's shoulder, frowned. "What's he on about? What car?"

"My thoughts exactly." John hit the reply button and typed, _What car? JW._

Sherlock's reply made both of them swear so loudly that the driver's eyes flew to the rear view mirror.

_The car that Diabel took you away in, John. I'm in the boot. SH._

Sherlock had been in the boot of Elena's BMW the entire time! Somehow he had slipped inside while she was dragging John out of the pub, but how had he done so without Lestrade and Mycroft's men- never mind that Petra woman- seeing him? John's fingers scrambled over the phone keys.

_You WHAT?_

"Oh, bloody hell," Lestrade groaned.

_Climbed in when the woman at the wheel was distracted. Must ascertain where Diabel is hiding, as the key to helping you must lie there. When I do, I'll text you the location and Mycroft can play battlefield general all he likes. SH._

A moment later, another text followed.

_We've stopped. SH_

Glancing up, John saw that they were nearing the manor. Mycroft's Audi was visible in the elaborate garage. He and Lestrade would have to retrieve Sherlock themselves: with 10 mgs of Haldol in his system, Mycroft wouldn't be able to stand, let alone direct an infiltration team.

_Sherlock, listen to me. Do nothing to give yourself away. Wait for Lestrade and I. Understood? JW_

Sherlock never replied.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in getting this latest chapter out! But that just means you get two this week. Thanks to my beta, **chasingriver**, for coming through at the last minute!

* * *

><p>Indirectly, Sherlock had helped John yet again. The ex-army doctor was so worried that he temporarily forgot about the figurative sword hanging over his head.<p>

Mycroft was upstairs in their room. When John hurried in with Lestrade, he saw the elder Holmes lying unconscious on the bed, tie removed and shirt partly unbuttoned. Someone had placed him in the recovery position.

"Dr. Watson?" A young man whom John recognized as a bodyguard rose from his seat at the window. "I'm Alex Morrell. I used to be a combat medical technician in the army before I went to work for Mr. Holmes. Do you have any idea what he's been given and how much?"

"10 milligrams of Haldol, I've been told." John sat on the edge of the bed and checked Mycroft's pulse. It was slow but steady. "He won't stir for at least three hours."

Lestrade faced the ex-medic. "We have a situation. Sherlock is missing."

Morrell quickly pulled a mobile out of his pocket and dialled. As soon as someone answered, he held the phone out to Lestrade. "I have his assistant on the line. Tell her what happened: she's authorised to act when Mr. Holmes is indisposed. "

While Lestrade paced in front of the window and talked to Anthea in low, agitated tones, John touched Mycroft's hand. Even when asleep, the man's brow was creased. Did his worries and responsibilities pursue him even in his dreams?

No matter. In a few hours the dreaming would stop and Mycroft would want to know why his current lover was in a pub toilet with one of his ex-lovers, who also happened to be a known subversive. Alarm over his impulsive sibling's disappearance would not eliminate or even forestall the need for answers.

Lestrade finished the call and came over. "Anthea says that there is no surveillance system in place in the area surrounding the pub, so we can't track down the car that way," he announced, looking stricken. "John, do you have any way of contacting this Diabel directly?"

John shook his head slowly.

"Fucking Sherlock." Lestrade gritted his teeth. "How the hell did he decide that locking himself in the boot of a terrorist's car would be a stroke of genius?"

"I don't think she'd hurt him." John imagined Elena discovering her stowaway after the car stopped. "If she found him, she'd just… disable… him like she did Mycroft."

As if on cue, Mycroft groaned softly and his hands twitched. But he didn't wake up.

"She must have done something, or we'd have heard from him by now." Lestrade's voice was grave. "Let's take a walk, mate. You and I need to talk. This gentleman can stay with Mycroft."

"Yes." John stood and faced Morrell. "I need to speak with Mr. Lestrade. We'll be around the premises. If Mr. Holmes' condition changes, text me at once. I presume you have the number."

"Yes, Sir."

They left the room and ascended the massive oak staircase in loaded silence. Neither doctor nor ex-Yarder spoke until they were out of the house and navigating the winding pathways of the back garden, which was thick and fragrant with wild roses. Then Lestrade said, "I'm listening."

"First, I need your word, Greg. I'll tell you everything, but I will be the one to discuss it all with Mycroft. Agreed?"

The former DI studied John's face before nodding. "All right."

Once John started talking about his pact with Elena, the words exploded from him like water conquering a dam. He'd never before appreciated how secrets could tear someone apart from the inside out, like swallowed glass, and expelling the details was an immense relief. When he mentioned Elena's –and possibly Mycroft's- son, Lestrade's jaw dropped but he didn't interrupt.

Finally John stopped talking and leaned against the lip of a stone fountain. The garden was silent except for the distant chirping of birds. Lestrade paced back and forth for awhile longer, clearly trying to digest everything he'd heard.

"I asked you this before, John, but we were interrupted," he said at last. "Why do you feel you can trust El- I mean, Diabel?"

"I feel like I don't have a choice, Greg. She's the only one who can find out more about what those bastards did to me. Christ, I've got a fucking explosive in my-"

John sank to his knees and hugged himself as the terrible reality sank in yet again. "Greg," he continued, shaking his head slowly, "I could die in a month. Blown up, like so many of my mates in Afghanistan."

"Listen." Lestrade bent over and grasped his shoulder. "I'm not saying I believe everything this woman told you: she seems to have a private agenda no matter whose side she's on. But one thing she said makes sense: whoever created that damned thing in your system should know how to undo it. If she can find out who it is and we can get to them, there's hope. Maybe Mycroft knows."

"Maybe." John breathed deeply until his heart rate returned to normal and his legs were steady enough to let him rise. "Sorry. For losing it there."

"Don't apologize. You're going through hell, John."

"I think hell was designed as a prelude for what I'm going through. Now please listen to me. When Mycroft wakes up, I'm telling him about everything except the boy. He doesn't need that type of news on top of everything else. Sherlock's missing, I'm a walking bomb- I'm not going to hit him with an uncertainty as well."

"Of course. But do you really think it's true? She had Mycroft's son?"

"Honestly?" John paused. "I think it's possible."

All Lestrade could say was, "Bloody hell. I'm just imagining what this kid must be like, with those genetics."

John didn't respond, but he had imagined it too. Often. In his mind's-eye he saw a fair-haired and pale-skinned boy with brilliant blue (or green, if he took after his mother) eyes and a supernatural intelligence. He could potentially be Britain's greatest champion or its most formidable enemy, depending on which parent ultimately influenced his allegiance.

They went back into the house and attempted to eat the dinner the cook had prepared, but neither had much appetite. Each time John's phone received a text they would jump eagerly, only to deflate when the message was from Mrs. Hudson, Harry, or in one instance Anthea asking if Mycroft had woken up yet.

John hated the helpless rage that consumed him whenever he and Sherlock were forcibly divided by the latter's headstrong antics. Sitting at the table, separated from his best friend by an unknown distance, wore his nerves raw. But he was also perversely grateful that the anxiety took his mind off his own dilemma. He was confident that Elena would not harm Sherlock, and waiting for further developments was a welcome distraction.

Morrell came downstairs while they were having drinks. "Mr. Holmes is awake and asking for Dr. Watson."

As John rose, Lestrade put down his gin and tonic. "Need me to go with you?"

"No, but thanks."

John followed the bodyguard up the stairs and down the hall, which was lit by heavily shaded wall sconces. Mycroft was sitting up in bed, sipping a glass of water. When he saw John, he set down the glass and his lips tightened. His eyes signalled confusion and hurt, two emotions that he rarely manifested.

"Mycroft." John sat on the edge of the bed, forcing himself to look his lover in the eye. "How are you feeling?"

"Physically, quite ghastly. Haldol leaves one with a nasty headache. Emotionally, I'm even worse."

"I know, and I'm prepared to explain. But first you need to know that Sherlock is missing."

The elder Holmes sat up straighter. "What's happened?"

John told him. Mycroft winced at the combined head pain and mental aggravation. "Foolish child," he muttered. "But at least I have a way of finding him."

"What?" John exclaimed. "How? Anthea said-"

Mycroft swung his legs to the floor and stood carefully. "Just fetch me some paracetamol."

"I will, but how can you find him?"

"I know Diabel much better than you ever will, John. I knew she might escape when I confronted you both." Mycroft took a few experimental steps. His gait was sluggish, but stable. "When she injected me I slapped a GPS tracker in her apron. I can find her, or at least her temporary abode, since she would have changed clothes there. Now, the painkillers if you please, while I access the GPS details on my laptop."

John found his medical kit in the closet and gave Mycroft the pills along with his glass of water. The elder Holmes swallowed them mechanically as he stared at the map that was gradually taking shape on the screen. John stood behind him, desperate to say something, _anything_, that would break the divide that he detected between them. But nothing came to mind except "What have you found?"

"Diabel –or the tracker anyway- is approximately twenty-five minutes north of here." Mycroft turned in his chair and called, "Mr. Morrell- bring my car around to the front immediately. We've ascertained where my brother might be. Ask Dunn to follow in a second vehicle with Jones and Fenning."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the ex-medic called from the bottom of the stairs.

Mycroft, appearing to notice for the first time that his shirt was open, tackled the buttons. When he saw his tie on the bureau he stood up and headed for it, but the sudden movement made him reel. He would have fallen if John hadn't caught him. The doctor knew that urging him to get back in bed and let John and Lestrade lead the rescue would be useless, so he said, "No fast movements until you're steadier."

"All right." Mycroft retrieved his tie and started toward the jacket hanging in the closet, but John retrieved it first.

"Here."

"Thank you." As he put it on, Mycroft gazed at John with an indecipherable expression. "We'll talk during the ride."

"Yes," John said gratefully. "I'll tell Greg to ride with your men."

Five minutes later, the two-vehicle caravan was heading away from the mansion into the Devon countryside. John checked his army-issue automatic to ensure that he'd remembered to load it while Mycroft, who had a Glock tucked in his overcoat pocket, gazed out the window.

"All right, John," he finally said, although his stare remained outward. "I'm listening."

John told him everything- nearly. He didn't mention Alexei, but said that Elena had agreed to help him in exchange for his assisting someone she cared about after she was gone. Mycroft's eyes narrowed at that, but he did not interrupt. When John told him about the explosive that now navigated his bloodstream, his lips parted and he paled.

"A corporeal timer bomb," he whispered. "Oh, dear God."

"She said she'd find out who designed the thing." John tried to stay calm. "Mycroft, she may be my only hope. If we find her at this GPS location and you arrest her, I'll probably die."

The elder Holmes lowered his head. "There are three different varieties of that explosive in existence. All three inventors are alive- one is in my custody." He took out his phone and began tapping, quivering fingers giving away his distress. "I'll order his immediate interrogation."

"Please don't touch Diabel," John whispered. "I think she's my only chance."

Mycroft sent his message and turned. "Are you going to tell me what she wants you to do for this party after she's… gone?" His mouth tightened into a pale line and John thought he saw something like grief flit across his face.

"Yes." John took a deep breath. "But only after I've kept my promise to her. Provided I survive."

Mycroft stared at him. Then his eyes misted. "John, you are one of the most honourable, genuine men I have ever encountered. It's partly what drew me to you. I confess that it unsettles me that you never told me about this before now, but I realize that you have your reasons. Valid ones."

John couldn't speak.

"While I was waiting for you to come upstairs after I woke up, I was nursing hurt pride and a sense of betrayal. You'd made an arrangement with Diabel without informing me. We're a couple, John- we're not supposed to keep things of that magnitude from each other. But at the same time, I myself have been guilty of keeping secrets from close ones. It's practically a requirement of my job."

Mycroft grabbed his hand. John pressed against him and wept heavily. The tears drained his fear and grief until a manageable residue remained. As he patted John's back, Mycroft whispered into his hair, "We'll retrieve my foolish brother, and then leave, provided no one tries to engage us. Diabel will remain free to do what it takes to end this nightmare."

"I'm afraid," John admitted.

"So am I. Like I told you before, Diabel supports a dangerous belief system, but she's not sadistic. If she says she'll help you, she will."

"I know she'll try. But what if- oh God, I don't want to leave you."

The car screeched suddenly to a halt and the driver shouted in alarm, but not before Mycroft said something that sounded like, "If you leave, John, we'll go together."


	12. Chapter 12

A young woman was stumbling along the road, holding a pistol in one hand and pressing the other to her stomach. When she saw the motorcade she wobbled back a few steps and tried to take aim, but her face contorted in pain and she sank to her knees.

Hearing a click as Alex Morrell deactivated his gun's safety catch, John cried, "Wait! I think I know who that is." He leaned forward and tried to make out her features through the tangled brown hair covering them. "That's the girl who was with Diabel! Her name's Petra."

Mycroft rolled down his window. "Petra!" he called in a firm yet reassuring voice. "This is Mycroft Holmes. Please put your weapon down. We're here to help." To John he added tersely, "Cover your ears until I speak to her."

"What? Why?"

"She might say Diabel's real name."

"Oh. Right."

John pressed his forefingers into both ears and continued to watch the young brunette, who got unsteadily to her feet, lowered the pistol, and lumbered toward them. Mycroft and Morrell slowly got out of the car and approached her. When Petra caught up to them, she spoke and gestured wildly in the direction from whence she had come. She was in mid-explanation when her eyes rolled suddenly and she fainted.

Mycroft gathered her quickly in his arms and held her while Morrell checked her pulse and carefully lifted her blouse hem to examine the injury she'd been protecting. When he saw red smears on her skin, John went cold all over.

Something had clearly happened at Elena's hideout. Something that caused Petra to be wounded.

_Oh God, Sherlock…_

Heart hammering, John leaned out the window. "Mycroft- bring her here. Let me examine her."

Mycroft carried Petra over to the car while Morrell went to speak to Lestrade and the occupants of the second vehicle. John opened the door, stepped out, and helped the elder Holmes lay her out on the seat. When Morrell returned, he handed her pistol to John.

"Stay here with her. There's a first aid kit in the glove compartment," Mycroft ordered as John examined her wound. He quickly determined that she had been grazed by a bullet, resulting in an ugly-looking but nonlethal injury. "We'll continue to the house. It's five minutes away."

John whirled around. "Did she say what's happening?"

"Sergei Ragulin's associates are here looking for someone named Alexei. Diabel resisted them and there was shooting. The gunmen are still there."

Alexei was here? John's jaw dropped.

"And Sherlock?" he managed.

Mycroft's expression was grave but his eyes registered a wild alarm. "She didn't say. John, I've got to go. You need to stay here. I can't risk you hearing Diabel's real name somehow." To the driver, he added, "Anders, come with me."

John knew he was right, but the thought of staying behind while Sherlock was in danger was unbearable. Seeing his reluctance, Mycroft said, "It'll be all right, John. I'll get him. Now please text Anthea and tell her what's going on and where we are."

"Mycroft, for God's sake be careful."

"Always. If she regains consciousness before I return, caution her about not saying Diabel's name." A pause. "I'll return as soon as possible."

Without waiting for a response, Mycroft turned away and strode toward the second car. When he climbed inside with Morrell and Anders, the vehicle circled carefully around John's sedan before disappearing down the road.

Heart hammering, John tried to focus on his patient. He texted Anthea as directed, and then got the first aid kit out of the glove compartment. Petra regained consciousness while he was cleaning her wound with alcohol.

"Dr. Watson," she whispered weakly.

"You're going to be fine. It's just a graze. Before you say anything further, I have to warn you not to say _her _name. I know it sounds silly but-"

"I know. She told me what's been done to you." Petra licked her dry lips. John took a bottle of water from the stash in the side compartment and held it for her while she gulped down the lukewarm contents. When she moved her mouth away, he said breathlessly, "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's… he's back at the house. When we saw him trying to sneak out of the car El knocked him out and put him in an upstairs bedroom. We were going to take him to Exeter, rent a hotel room, leave him in it, and let you know where he was. But before we could leave, Alexei showed up."

"What happened?"

"He escaped from the Surrey facility where the Consortium placed him. He's a brilliant boy- after he accessed their records and determined where his mother was, he disabled their surveillance system long enough to escape. El was shocked to see him. Then, two hours later, a Consortium retrieval team showed up. El didn't want to let them take him back, and the guns came out."

"Was anyone injured besides you?"

"I don't know." Her voice broke. "How- how did you find us?"

John forced himself to smile as he applied an adhesive bandage to the wound. "Mycroft is resourceful."

Petra nodded, satisfied. "That's what El always said."

"You're going to be all right. That wound bled quite a bit, but it's not that serious. Do you feel dizzy? Like you're going to pass out?"

She shifted experimentally on the seat. "No."

"Okay. Good." John took a deep breath. "Have you still got ammunition in your gun?"

She picked it up off the seat, ejected the clip, and examined it. "Yes."

He slid his service revolver out of his coat pocket. "I'm going to go help Mycroft and Dia- I mean, El. You should be safe here."

Petra clasped her weapon in both hands. She was still pale but some colour was returning to her cheeks. "Please bring her back to me, Dr. Watson. She is everything to me."

"I'll do my best. I'll be back as soon as possible."

With that, John slipped out of the vehicle, closed the door, and ran down the hedge-lined road. The greenery exceeded his own height by at least two feet, giving the route a maze-like feel.

He knew that Mycroft wouldn't be happy about his disobedience, but John couldn't sit there like a fretting civilian and wait for the crisis to pass. His soldier's instincts were too strong, and three of the people who he cared about the most- Mycroft, Sherlock, and Lestrade- were in danger, as well as a fourteen-year-old boy who was still a child, for all his supernatural intelligence.

There was also the fact that when he was in action, he thought less about horrible things like dying violently. Another army mind trick that he was now grateful for.

When he heard gunshots in the distance, his heartbeat quickened along with his running speed. The road veered to the left, and when John rounded the curve he saw a two-storey stone cottage at the end of a hundred-yard drive. Instinctively he crept into the bushes and advanced along the tree line, keeping to the shadows.

No one was on the neatly groomed front lawn, but the acrid smell of gunpowder and a bluish haze in the air verified that a battle had taken place only moments before. Mycroft's car was parked at an angle near the small flight of stone steps leading into the cottage. Another vehicle, this one an unfamiliar black SUV, stood approximately ten feet away from it.

_Must be the car that brought the Consortium search party_, John thought as he approached.

Three men appeared suddenly in the open doorway. John's trigger finger flexed, but quickly relaxed when he recognized Lestrade and Alex Morrell, who were escorting a rumpled-looking man in handcuffs.

"Greg!" he called.

Startled, Lestrade stared about until he spied John in the shadows. Then he waved. "Perimeter's clear!" he shouted.

John sprinted over. "Where are Sherlock and Mycroft?"

"Out back. Sherlock's a little nauseous from whatever he's been given, so Mycroft took him outside for air."

The prisoner snarled something in Russian. Morrell propelled him roughly toward the government sedan, leaving Lestrade free to talk to John.

"What about Diabel?"

"She's not here. Neither is the boy. Apparently he escaped from wherever he was being held and came here looking for his mother. That's what Diabel's girlfriend told Mycroft."

"She told me the same thing. Anyone wounded?"

"One dead in the sitting room. Probably killed by Diabel or the other woman. There were two others going through the house when we showed up. They shot at us and escaped."

"Right then. I'm going to see how Sherlock is."

"He's better off than he deserves for pulling such a stupid trick."

John hurried through the cottage's ground floor, catching glimpses of overturned furniture and scattered papers. He easily found the open door leading to the back garden and paused in the doorway, looking about.

Like the one at Mycroft's Exeter headquarters, this one was dense with shrubbery and flowering bushes. The air was several degrees warmer than it had been out front, and thick with the cloying scent of lilac, honeysuckle, and roses. Sniffing appreciatively, he descended the stone steps and listened for voices. He soon heard two of them: one was deep but feeble, while the other spoke in scolding tones.

"Back off, Mycroft. I suspect that your nagging is making me feel worse than the injection."

"I've only just begun. Does your childish impetuosity know no bounds?"

Instead of replying, the younger Holmes retched loudly. John tried to summon some sympathy, and failed. Now that the crisis had passed and Sherlock was safe, fear over his own situation was creeping back in like a wet fog, chilling his skin and making breathing difficult.

Following the direction of the voices, John stumbled over something solid and nearly lost his footing. Looking down, he saw a woman's low-heeled heather pump on the gravel path. When he bent over to pick it up, he spotted a long, pale shape partly concealed by the lower branches of a lilac bush. Peering at it, he realized that it was a woman's bare leg.

Eyes widening, he held his revolver ready and manoeuvred slowly around the bush. He could vaguely hear Mycroft snapping "I have no sympathy for you right now, Sherlock."

What he saw on the other side of the bush made him gasp. Elena, still wearing the waitress uniform from the pub, was lying on her side in a trampled patch of grass, eyes closed and face chalk-white. Hovering over her, cradling her head in his lap, was a teenaged boy.

John had seen pictures of the Holmes brothers when they were children, and the young man who now eyed him with suspicion and alarm was a carbon copy of Mycroft at that age. Auburn hair with a faint wave crowned a sharp, intelligent face, and his slender frame already showed promise of above-average height.

John had no more doubts about his paternity.

"Alexei," he whispered.

"You are not taking me back," the boy hissed, his diction precise and controlled despite his obvious anxiety. "Not that you could do it on your own anyway. You have a stiff shoulder from an old wound and you're already winded from running for at least ten minutes. Not an impressive result for a soldier, but you've been off of active duty for at least two years."

John was bewildered. "You know who I am?"

"I know what you are. You're here to retrieve me, and I'm not going to let you do that or hurt my mother." Alexei slowly, reverently lowered Elena's head to the soft grass and stood. "You're a doctor too. That's interesting. Did they send you to jab me full of something to make me compliant?"

John didn't realize until it was too late that the boy had been –instinctively or otherwise- playing the old Holmes trick of disarming people with uncanny insights and deductions. He was still trying to figure out what made his medical status so obvious when Alexei produced a pistol from his waistband and took aim.

"Now I have to kill you, and those other two men in here," he said angrily. "I don't want to, but you leave me with no alternative."

Then he fired.


	13. Chapter 13

John waited for it: the crushing impact of a bullet against his chest, followed by blossoming blood and pain, and finally darkness that no emergency surgery could rescue him from.

All of it would have happened if Elena hadn't suddenly opened her eyes and lashed out with one bare foot, catching her son behind the knee and knocking him into the grass. The bullet struck an overhead branch instead, sending some nesting birds into a frenzy.

"Alexei, no!" she cried weakly.

The boy struggled to all fours, still gripping the gun. John grabbed his wrist, forced him to drop it, and locked both arms around his slender body.

"Let go of me!" Alexei hissed. He tried to head-butt John, but the doctor moved his face out of the way.

"Calm down, son, I'm not one of them!"

"I'm NOT your son! An IQ test would confirm that instantly!"

Elena, her pale face now blanketed with sweat, struggled onto one elbow and touched Alexei's knee. The boy instantly stilled. "John's a friend," she said hoarsely. "He's here to help-"

Her green eyes, their lustre now absent, rolled back in her head and she collapsed again.

"Mum!" Alexei cried, sounding like a frightened child for the first time since John had laid eyes on him. "Let me go to her! Please!"

The gun was now out of his reach, so John released him carefully. They both crouched beside Elena, who looked more dead than alive. Her lips were bloodless and her skin had an ashy hue. John felt her pulse, which was weak and unsteady, and checked for a bullet wound, but couldn't see blood anywhere.

"I'm a doctor. What happened to her?" he asked the boy, who was squeezing her hand and gently returning her head to his lap.

"I don't know. She wasn't shot. She's got cancer- that's why they separated us. Maybe she's having a relapse. Oh God, Mum." Alexei's thin lips, which were identical to Mycroft's, trembled and tears hung from his lashes.

Their conversation was interrupted by two sets of footsteps hurrying down the path. John heard Mycroft calling anxiously, "John? John, I heard you. Where are you?"

Alexei tensed, eyes flashing over the ground for a potential weapon. "It's all right, they're with me," John assured him before raising his voice. "I'm here. With Diabel and someone else."

The Holmes brothers joined them a moment later. They were both sweating: Mycroft from exertion, Sherlock due to lingering nausea. When he saw Elena, Mycroft fell to his knees beside John and Alexei.

"What's happened?" he exclaimed.

"Her pulse is low and her breathing is irregular," John told him. "We've got to her to a hospital."

"She just collapsed when we were running through the garden, trying to get away from those men," the boy answered without taking his eyes off of his mother. John felt chills at the sight of a man and his secret son kneeling side by side, their attention so focused on the woman who united them that they barely acknowledged each other.

Sherlock wasn't so oblivious. John watched his gaze flit from Mycroft to Alexei and back, lingering over their hair, lips, and other physical features they had in common. Then the younger Holmes surveyed Elena, and the concerned, almost reverent way that Mycroft touched her wrist. His brow furrowed and his mouth tightened.

_Oh Christ_, John thought, his heart sinking. _He's guessed it._

For once, though, Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself. But the next second he overstepped a different boundary.

"Can we move her or is she going to die right here?"

"_Sherlock_!" John hissed.

Alexei looked up, his fair skin colouring with rage. "She's not going to die!" he yelled. "You bloody bastard!"

Before John or Mycroft could grab him, the boy carefully laid Elena's head on the soft ground and sprang to his feet. He leaped at Sherlock, whose response time remained slow due to the earlier injection, and struck him on the cheekbone. The younger Holmes stumbled back several steps, nearly crashing into a rose bush, but blocked a second attack by seizing Alexei's wrists, spinning him around, and securing him in an armlock.

"Don't make me hurt you!" Sherlock huffed.

"As if you could! You're only dangerous in the laboratory, you failed chemist!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grow red in the face. "Don't try to out-deduce me! I've got years of experience on you."

Mycroft rose with a panther's dangerous grace. "Stop it, both of you!" he barked. Alexei instinctively responded to the authority in his voice and paused; Sherlock followed suit, although the latter's face darkened with contempt.

"You're her son, aren't you?" Mycroft queried in a softer tone. When Alexei nodded after a venomous backward glare at Sherlock, he said, "I can tell. You look like her. Now please listen. Neither of you will be harmed. We're going to take you somewhere safe. Petra too."

The boy brightened. "Aunt Petra is all right? I saw them shoot her."

"She's wounded but not too badly, I understand." The elder Holmes looked at John for confirmation. When the doctor nodded, Mycroft continued, "Sherlock, let him go."

"Gladly. Maybe he'll get your face on the next round." Sherlock lowered his arms and touched his cheek, which was a livid shade of purple. Staring icily at Alexei, he said, "If she's your mother, where's your father? I'm sure he's worried about you, unless he doesn't know you exist yet."

John closed his eyes.

The teenager glared daggers at him. "None of your business." Facing John and Mycroft, he added, "I never knew my father. Now, please, let's go. She needs help."

"Of course." The elder Holmes crouched, arranged Elena carefully in his arms, and stood. She groaned softly but did not wake up. "Let's head out. We-" He hesitated at the distress evident on the doctor's face. "John?"

"Sorry, I'm all right. Just a headache."

John loved Sherlock, and had once been prepared to die rather than face life without him. But there were times, like this, when he wanted to join the majority opinion and cheerfully strangle his best friend. Sherlock was so driven once he got an idea in his head. He would aggressively explore and test his theories until he was proven right or wrong, not caring less whose sensitivities he pulverized in the bargain. His only soft spot was John- anyone (even a newly discovered nephew) and anything else was fair game for his ruthless curiosity.

Mycroft led the way back to the house. John kept himself between Alexei and Sherlock while he wondered what was going to happen now. Although he refused to say it aloud, his brief examination of her was enough to tell him that Elena's relapse was serious, and she did _not_ have six months left. Six weeks was more likely.

His heart thudded in his chest, reminding him that six weeks was more than _he _had, unless Mycroft's resources were able to determine which explosive had been planted in him and how to disable it… if disabling it was possible.

As they walked through the house, John recalled something from his medical school days. For months, he'd been fanatical about hot sauce, probably because it enabled him to stay relatively alert during 36-hour shifts at the hospital. He'd poured it over his sandwich meats instead of ketchup or mustard, and even mixed it into the microwaveable soup cups he'd survived on. But one day Mike Stamford caught him adding hot sauce to his morning coffee, and kidded him by posting a photocopied picture on his locker door. It was a police photograph of a woman's charred remains: a caption below identified it as an alleged case of spontaneous human combustion. The implication was clear- any more hot sauce and all that would be left of John Watson one day was a pile of smouldering embers.

The thought wasn't so funny any more. He was a hair's breadth from another breakdown, but maintained his composure for Mycroft's and Alexei's sakes.

Lestrade, Morrell, and other guards waited out by the car, keeping an eye on the glowering Russian prisoner in the back seat. When he saw Elena, Lestrade hurried over.

"What's happened? Has she been shot?"

"No, but she needs medical attention urgently," Mycroft said. "Gregory, please call Anthea and tell her I'll need a medical team sent to the manor at once. For a patient in an advanced stage of terminal cancer. Tell her I want Dr. Bruckman if he's available. I'll also need a cleanup crew to remove the body in this house and restore the premises to acceptable shape in case the owner drops by unexpectedly."

"You got it." Lestrade pulled out his mobile and dialled.

The elder Holmes turned to the bodyguards next. "Take the prisoner to Containment and return to the manor afterward. Mr. Morrell, I want you to ride with them as far as the spot where we left the other car. Drive it back here and pick us up."

"Yes, Sir." Morrell glanced at John. "Did that young woman regain consciousness?"

"Yes. But she knows we're all on the same side. Just make sure you identify yourself as you approach the car."

Alexei stared at the handcuffed prisoner, blue eyes flashing with resentment. "He and the other men who followed me here are with the Consortium. And if you want to know more about _them_, I'll be happy to oblige. I accessed several of their databases before coming here. It's how I knew where to find my mother."

John felt a pang. A fourteen-year-old boy shouldn't see handcuffed prisoners, gun-toting bodyguards, and references to containment centres as normal. Alexei was above average, but he was still a child. Did Mycroft and Sherlock have their childhoods abridged under similar circumstances?

"You're a resourceful young man," Mycroft told Alexei while Lestrade spoke to Anthea on his mobile and the bodyguards drove off with the Russian. "We shall definitely talk after we ensure that your mother is comfortable."

Sherlock edged up to John. "I may not know who that boy is, but _what_ he is- that's obvious. I'm surprised Mycroft doesn't see it."

John glanced worriedly at the elder Holmes, but he was talking to Lestrade now and didn't appear to be listening. "Not now, Sherlock. Please."

"His appearance, his speech, the fact that he knew I am a chemist, although I resent the insinuation that I'm a failure. It all adds up. Mycroft even admitted that he knew the woman well."

John raised both hands. "Just stop, all right?"

The younger Holmes frowned. "You've gotten more bad news, haven't you? You have that line on your forehead that you always get when you're in trouble. It generally goes away after 24 hours, so the news is recent. What is it?"

John realized that Sherlock didn't know about the bomb yet. Not wanting to have the discussion on the front lawn of a recent battleground, he said wearily, "You're right, Sherlock, but I can't talk about this now. Wait until we get to Mycroft's place. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock nodded reluctantly, but continued to survey him from top to bottom, clearly seeking clues. John turned away, only to face another pair of scrutinizing eyes.

"Everyone calls you John," Alexei said thoughtfully. "And you're a doctor. I'm not normally this slow when it comes to reaching conclusions, but are you Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes," John answered slowly. "How do you know about me?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. He too was interested in the response.

The boy's eyes widened. "You're the one they programmed."

"How do you know about that?" Sherlock demanded.

Alexei ignored him. "When I hacked into the Consortium databases, trying to determine where Mum was, I accessed her most recent mission profile. It had a subsection with your name on it and outlined the steps they took to modify you. So you'd kill a Mycroft Holmes."

"Which is me," Mycroft announced, joining the conversation. "Did you just say you know what's been done to John?"

"Yes. Listen, Mum's name is your trigger. But I suspect you know that already. I heard you refer to her as Diabel."

John nodded. "I was triggered yesterday, but brought out of it by hypnosis. Now I have twenty-nine days left to undo their fail-safe."

"The corporeal timer bomb," Alexei said.

"What?" Sherlock faced John, eyes wide. "John!"

Mycroft handed Elena to Lestrade, whose stare was glued to the boy's face. "Alexei, I need you to think very carefully. Did the file indicate which bomb they used?"

Alexei's response elicited a collective gasp. "Yes, it did, and I know how to destroy it."


	14. Chapter 14

Elena regained consciousness while John was clipping an oximeter to her finger. She blinked a few times before staring in confusion at the IV stand and monitoring equipment that was connected to her body.

"John." Her voice was frail. "Am I in a hospital?"

"No." He stood up and tucked the blanket over her hand. "Well, not one that the NHS knows about anyway. This is Mycroft's headquarters outside Exeter."

Fear livened her eyes. "Am I in custody?" She struggled to sit up. John hurriedly placed a hand on her thin shoulder.

"Protective custody, yes. But you're not a prisoner."

"Alexei? Petra?"

"They're here and they're fine."

Reluctantly, she settled back against the pillows. "I want to see them."

"I'll get them for you. Petra's resting –she's mildly wounded, but she'll be all right- and Alexei is with Mycroft and an explosives expert from Mycroft's office."

"Myke," she whispered. "Am I correct in assuming that he tracked his brother to my cottage?"

"Actually, he tracked you."

Elena's brow creased. When John told her about the GPS device that Mycroft had dropped into her apron when she drugged him, she relaxed and actually smiled. "I'm not surprised. Myke always had a backup plan. You- you didn't tell him that Alexei is his…." Her voice trailed off as she glanced nervously at the door.

"No," John answered. "But Sherlock figured it out. And if Sherlock did, then Mycroft must have, but he's not said anything."

"That's Myke. Taking care of business before focusing on emotional subjects like family." There was no irony in her voice. "Alexei told you what happened? About escaping from the Consortium facility?"

"Yes. But that's not all he told us." Unable to keep the excitement from his tone, John told her about Alexei's discovery in the Consortium database. "He's talking to Mycroft's specialist now, giving him the necessary information to do something about this goddamn thing inside me."

Elena smiled. "I don't want to disturb him then. I'd be grateful if you would send Petra in. Alexei can come when he's done."

"All right. There's one more thing: according to the file Alexei read, the trigger word can only work once. We tested that theory –with me cuffed to a chair- and your name didn't turn me into a raving maniac this time."

"Good," she declared. "Be sure to let Sergei know that he's not as thorough and omnipotent as he'd like to believe."

John laughed. "I plan on delivering that message personally. I'll tell Petra you're awake."

As soon as he left the room and closed the door, John's smile dropped. Elena had not asked about the source of her collapse, sparing him the need to immediately tell her what Dr. Bruckman, Mycroft's cancer specialist, had determined. She'd been sedated upon arrival at the manor so that x-rays could be done and tests run, and the results- which were available within hours thanks to Mycroft's influence- confirmed John's initial impression. With or without her knowledge, the disease had progressed to the point that she had a month left. At the outside.

He suspected that Elena had refused temporary solutions such as chemotherapy once she understood that her condition was terminal. She probably didn't want to be plagued by nausea, hair loss, debilitation, and a reduced ability to enjoy her remaining time with Alexei. John understood, but still felt a pang. He'd grown fond of the beautiful, resourceful Polish agent during their brief association, and was genuinely grateful to her for trying to save him. He would feel her death strongly.

After rousing Petra from a light sleep and letting her know that Elena was asking for her, John proceeded to the study, where Mycroft, Alexei, and the explosives expert were huddled around a laptop. He paused in the doorway, marvelling yet again at how much father and son looked alike. They were pointing at the computer screen and discussing its contents with an identical calm urgency.

The sight was both heartwarming and chilling.

Mycroft spotted him first. "John. I think we've discovered a solution."

"Really?" John's heart leaped.

"We know what the explosive is, and have accessed a blueprint of its digital makeup. Sherlock was here until a few minutes ago: he thinks he can develop a non-toxic chemical converter that will disintegrate it. He's gone to let Anthea know what he needs."

"Oh, thank God."

Alexei raised his head and regarded John with a solemn yet affable expression that the doctor had long associated with Mycroft.

"Disintegration has never been attempted before," he said. "We're going on theory only. But it looks very good."

"Thank God," John repeated. After taking a minute to compose himself, he said, "Alexei, your mum's awake and asking for you."

The boy's face lit up. "Brilliant! I'll go see her now."

Mycroft touched his shoulder. "Go see her and then get some rest. We've been up for over twenty-four hours now."

"I'm not tired. Sleeping is a waste of time."

The elder Holmes tried –and failed- to suppress a smile. "It's non-negotiable, Alexei. I'll check on you in an hour."

"Two," Alexei shot back before vanishing into the corridor.

John gazed after him. "Fourteen years old and already the master of the last word."

"Yes," Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock is no longer the titleholder in that department. I have a big job ahead of me."

John's eyes widened. _Does he know…..?_

"Come, John. Let's take a stroll in the garden. I could use the night air." Mycroft turned to the explosion specialist. "Paulson, you should rest as well. You've performed magnificently."

The man nodded gratefully and headed for the sofa, rubbing his eyes and loosening his tie.

The elder Holmes took a package of cigarettes and a lighter out of the desk drawer and slid them into his jacket pocket. John's stomach fluttered: Mycroft only smoked when he needed to soothe his nerves. Then he slid one arm through John's and led the way out of the room, down the stairs, and through the manor until they reached the door leading to the back garden. The beefy young man standing guard there bowed deferentially to his boss before standing aside to let them pass.

"Jackson and Mahoney just completed a patrol of the gardens, sir," he reported. "All clear."

"Thank you, Miller."

The evening air was sweet, and heavy with the scent of roses as well as apples from an adjacent orchard. John inhaled deeply and let Mycroft guide him into the garden, whose path was now brilliantly lit by a series of strategically placed lamps. The only sound was the crunch of their shoes on the gravel and the distant chirping of crickets.

They stopped by the fountain where John had confided in Lestrade only twenty-four hours before. Mycroft lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Then he spoke, his words accompanied by bluish smoke.

"I wish I had known."

"About?"

"Alexei." The older man's voice was fragile with barely-contained emotion. "All these years and I never _knew._ He's mine, John. I could tell the moment I saw him." He gazed at John, who was trying –and failing- to find words. "When Elena asked you to do something for a close one after she died, she was talking about Alexei, wasn't she?"

"Yes," John whispered.

"Dear God." Mycroft paced back and forth. The composure that he had maintained for hours crumbled. "I can't believe it. How could I not have known?"

"Elena never told you. That's how."

"Yes, of course, but…." He trailed off and sucked fiercely on the cigarette again. "I have decisions to make. The boy must be protected and provided for."

John grabbed his hand. "You're worried about being a father."

"Yes, and not because I don't know how to handle a brilliant but headstrong teenager. Sherlock prepared me well for that potential responsibility after our mother died." Mycroft looked anguished. "It's _me, _John. I'm afraid of what a connection to me will mean for him. People I care about are constantly subject to danger. Like you. Look what happened to you."

"Alexei already knows what danger is, Mycroft. His mother is a subversive agent whose bosses locked him in a gilded cage. He'll never be eligible for an anonymous childhood in the suburbs, even if he were temperamentally suited to a quiet life, which he clearly isn't." John laced their fingers together. "You have to keep him close. That's the only way to give him a shot at safety and stability. And I'll help you. You won't go through this alone."

Mycroft squeezed his hand, eyes bright with affection. "I love you. And now, thanks to Alexei, I won't have to say goodbye."

As their lips pressed together, all was quiet except for the rustling of the wind in the bushes. Neither of them realized that there was actually no wind, however, until John felt a thick arm close around his throat and drag him backwards several feet. He reached for the gun in his waistband but the attacker snatched it first and hurled it onto the grass.

Mycroft shouted and lunged to his assistance. Before he could reach John, he too was suddenly seized from behind and crushed against a firm chest. A gigantic arm held him in place while his assailant's other hand clamped down over his mouth and nose.

When John recognized the man smothering Mycroft, he thrashed wildly and tried to call for help, but all that came out was a hoarse gurgle. He'd tangled with this gigantic killer once before, but he'd been armed then, and it had been two (he and Sherlock) against one. But even then John didn't get off easy- he'd sported bruises and cuts from that encounter for weeks afterward.

When dark spots started appearing in John's vision, he knew that his –and Mycroft's- chance of surviving this one were slim to none.

_It's the Consortium... they want Alexei back._

As he held his victim tight, the Golem sneered at John and winked.


	15. Chapter 15

The last time John had encountered Oscar Dzundza, the Czech assassin had been joyfully smothering the life out of Sherlock. His massive hands were silent and lethal, making traditional weapons unnecessary. Only the timely arrival of John –and his army automatic- saved the headstrong detective from being left a blue-faced corpse on the museum theatre's floor.

As he tried to break his attacker's hold, John feared that he and Mycroft wouldn't be so lucky now. He could see the manor lights in the distance, and make out shapes moving behind the curtains, but his inability to call for help made him feel despair instead of hope.

Although Dzundza's broad palm robbed him of oxygen, Mycroft didn't thrash like a beached fish. Using both hands to grasp the arm around his chest, he raised his legs and kicked backwards with a muffled grunt, catching the taller man in the kneecaps. The Golem roared with surprise and pain, threw him aside, and wobbled back a few steps. Seizing his advantage, Mycroft sprang to his feet and delivered another well-placed kick to Dzundza's right leg, knocking him to the trampled grass. A third blow- this one to the head- put the assassin out of commission.

John's assailant was sufficiently distracted by the sight to relax his grip, allowing the doctor to slide down and plant his feet on the ground. John then threw his full weight backwards, sending the top of his head crashing into the man's chin. They both fell into an adjacent rose bush, whose thorns shredded their exposed skin. During the following struggle, John climbed on top of the other man, who wore dark clothes and a ski mask.

"Tell the Consortium to go to hell," he hissed before bringing his fist down hard and ending the fight.

Breathing heavily, John stared over his shoulder. Mycroft was standing beside his unconscious opponent, opening and closing his fingers repeatedly. His hair fell over his eyes, which blazed like chips of backlit ice.

"Taller men, especially those with a well-developed upper body, have weaker knees as a rule," he said. "Oscar here was so convinced of his invulnerability that he neglected to bring a weapon. Confidence is one thing, arrogant stupidity is quite another."

"It's got to be the Consortium," John declared. He patted down his attacker, found a semi-automatic tucked in the man's waistband, and confiscated it. Then he retrieved his own gun from where it had been thrown.

"I agree. They want Alexei." Mycroft scanned the bushes and darkness as he stepped backward. "They wouldn't just send two men, despite Mr. Dzundza's impressive record. More mercenaries are out there or on their way." He turned around. "Let's return to the house. I'll send guards back for these two and request reinforcements. As soon as proper medical transportation can be secured for Elena, we're going back to London. My facilities there are more defensible."

"Right behind you."

They hurried back to the manor. When Alex Morrell opened the back door to them, his eyes widened at their appearance.

"Mr. Holmes, Sir? Dr. Watson? What's happened?"

"Two Consortium soldiers attacked us in the garden," Mycroft answered. "We've left them near the fountain. They're alive but neutralized. Send four men to retrieve them and call for backup. I'm convinced that more will be coming."

"Yes, Sir." Morrell asked another bodyguard, who'd just emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee, to take his place at the door. Then he hurried into the sitting room, phone pressed to his ear and urgently whispering instructions.

John followed Mycroft to Elena's upstairs room. Alexei, despite his earlier insistence that he was not tired, was lying under the covers next to her, eyes closed. Petra dozed in a chair, but she and Elena both sat at attention when the two men came in.

"Myke?" Elena queried.

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake the boy, Mycroft told the women what had happened in the garden. Petra stood up quickly.

"Give me a gun," she said.

John handed her the automatic that he'd confiscated from his assailant. She checked the ammunition levels, nodded in grim satisfaction, and hurried to close the thick curtains.

Elena moved to disconnect her IV. "I want one too. They'll take Alexei over my dead body."

Mycroft grabbed her hand. "Don't take that off. You'll get a gun, but that drip includes necessary medication, and you need to stay in bed. Please."

John could sense not only a silent battle of wills but also a vestige of their old passion as they stared at each other. Her cheeks flushed and Mycroft's thumb rubbed gentle circles into her wrist, providing additional reminders that they'd been lovers once.

He wasn't jealous, but he couldn't watch either. His eyes lowered.

"Please do as he says, El," Petra pleaded.

Elena finally relaxed and leaned back against the pillows. She snaked a protective arm around Alexei's shoulders. "All right. But if shooting starts, I will not lie back. They're not taking him again, Myke."

Mycroft nodded. "I'll protect him, Elena. Always."

Her green eyes misted. "You know, then." She glanced at John, who looked back up.

"John didn't tell me. I knew the moment I saw Alexei. I wish I'd known before now, but regrets rarely serve a useful purpose. So let us bypass them."

The charged conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Morrell told us what's going on," Lestrade said. "We've got to leave Exeter- we can't defend this house indefinitely. There are too many windows, and the gardens and forests are a natural cover for anyone moving in on us."

Mycroft released Elena's hand and stood up. "Arrangements are already underway for us to move to a secure location in London."

Sherlock went to stand by John. "Does it have an adequate lab?"

"You'll have access to everything you need."

Affection flooded through John. Sherlock would not rest until he'd concocted a counteragent for the bomb. He imagined the younger Holmes crouching intently over microscopes and Bunsen burners, that marvelous but chaotic mind focused on one thing: saving the only friend he had. John's hand found Sherlock's and squeezed it.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Sherlock faced him. "How could you possibly think I'd do otherwise, John?" he asked. "All I want is for this to be over and for us to go back to Baker Street and Mycroft to be as annoying as usual."

Despite his trademark abruptness John could detect the emotions flowing beneath that calm, arrogant exterior. Sherlock was afraid. Very afraid that he would not be able to come through.

"Come on, let's get some tea," John said, nudging him. To everyone else in the room, he added, "I need to speak to Sherlock. Bring him up to speed on a few things."

Mycroft nodded and smiled gently. "Of course."

John practically led Sherlock out of the room. When they were on the stairs, he said softly, "It's all right to be afraid, you know."

"No, it isn't, John. I can't afford to let emotion cloud my judgment. Too much is at stake."

"Sherlock." John took him by the shoulders. "There's no doubt in my mind that you will put everything you have into this. If it doesn't work, it's not because you didn't try."

"It _has_ to work, because if it doesn't, I lose you." The younger Holmes was fighting a losing battle with panic. "When I had to disappear, I was only able to cope by watching you. If you're _gone_, I won't be able to…." He waved his hands helplessly. "I just _won't. _Mycroft has Alexei_. _He'll be devastated, but he has someone to live for. I don't."

Sherlock yanked himself out of John's grasp and bounded down the stairs. At the foot, he stopped and took several deep breaths, lanky frame shaking lightly.

"Can you _promise_ me that I'll succeed, John?" he asked, staring up at his best –and only- friend with hollow eyes. "Because if you can't, please don't offer empty reassurances. Please."

It was one of those rare occasions when John Watson couldn't think of anything to say.


	16. Chapter 16

_Four weeks later_

From his vantage point on the roof of the government safe house in North London, John sipped coffee and gazed at the streets below. The steady trickle of homeward-bound clubbers, shuffling like zombies in the dirty half-light, had tapered off an hour ago. Now the first wave of morning commuters was making an appearance. Looking wearier than their partied-out predecessors, they headed for the bus stops and Tube stations. Just watching them drag themselves along made John feel tired too.

As he stretched and yawned, the blue spot in the crook of his right elbow caught his eye. He examined it in disapproval: the medical techs here could learn a bit about being gentle. But he wasn't too bothered: the bruise marked the entry point for the dissolving agent that his best friend had spent weeks perfecting. He'd been injected late last night, in accordance with Sherlock's instructions. If the formula actually worked, he'd cherish this mark until it faded, as an emblem of his salvation.

John checked his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past seven. He had been triggered at noon on the day Mycroft rescued him from Sergei's lair. Alexei had said that the bomb was programmed to go off at exactly the same time thirty days later. While most of Britain's citizens were on their lunch breaks today, John would either live or die.

As he stood on the roof, listening to the rumbling buses, honking car horns, and thrum of voices below, John thought about all the things he still wanted to do. Travel, for one. But not to a touristy sunspot: the ruins of Pompeii, perhaps, or the Civil War battle sites in America. He'd always loved places with historic significance. He also wanted to see Harry get off the booze for good, keep watching over Sherlock, and grow old with Mycroft.

John had enough faith in the combined brilliance of Sherlock and Alexei to believe that he would get his chance to do all that and more. But he could not be _sure_, so fear continued to erode his confidence.

Not wanting to be alone any more, he tossed the paper coffee cup away and went back inside. When he stepped out of the elevator onto the secure floor that contained everyone's sleeping quarters, the first thing he saw was the open door to Elena's room.

Despite the premium medical care, her deterioration had continued. Last week she'd lost the ability to walk unaided and now most of her nutrition came from an IV drip. Such incapacity must have been devastating to a woman who'd been so strong and agile, but she never complained.

Petra was asleep on a cot against the rear wall. The shadows under her eyes were so deep that they resembled smears of purple eye makeup. John worried for her as well as Alexei: Mycroft had granted her amnesty, but when she finally left this place, it would not be with the woman she loved. Like Elena, she remained outwardly brave, but John had noticed her trembling hands and pinched expression, and knew that her composure would leave with her partner's last breath.

_God, don't let Mycroft have to suffer a similar loss…._

Elena must have heard John exit the elevator, for she opened her eyes when he paused in the doorway. "John," she whispered.

He stepped quietly into the room. "Good morning."

"Today's the day?"

"Yes. At eleven-thirty, I go into the room. At noon, we all find out if the dissolving agent worked."

"The room" was an explosion-proof cell on the facility's lowest level. Government weapons developers tested newly engineered bombs in it. Today it would contain a man instead of an object.

Mycroft was sickened at the thought of John being locked in there alone to await potential annihilation, but they both knew that there was no safe alternative. Sherlock was agitated to the point of mania: after John had received the counter-agent, the detective instantly noticed the bruising around the needle mark and verbally throttled the med tech. Then he followed John everywhere, even into the toilet, and kept up a running litany of scientific explanations as to why the solution should work. When he finally yielded to exhaustion three hours ago, John felt guilty at the immensity of his relief.

Lestrade was being stoic, thank God. John was relying on Greg to keep the Holmes brothers –and later Harry- above water emotionally if the worst came to pass.

"You will survive, John," Elena told him. "Two of the best minds in the country engineered this antidote."

John shook his head slowly. "Alexei is extraordinary. Sometimes I forget he's just a kid."

"Most people do," she smiled.

When Elena, in the presence of John and Mycroft, had told Alexei who his father was, the boy's response surprised all of them. He did not get emotional, or even express anger at being deceived until now. He simply grinned and said, "I know. It's obvious." Then he rattled off the list of clues- their physical and mental similarities, Mycroft's history with his mother- that made his conclusion a natural one. When he was done, he faced Mycroft and said somewhat shyly, "I look forward to getting to know you better." There were no hugs, just a brief but warm handshake that conveyed more acceptance and feeling than words could have. John frequently saw them strolling together throughout the building afterward. "Catching up," Mycroft had explained. John presumed that was 'Holmes-speak' for "Getting to know each other."

Elena's eyes began to close. The brief conversation had already exhausted her. "There are other people you should be talking to now," she murmured. "I need to rest, but do come see me after it's over."

"I will. I promise."

When John went back into the hall, he saw Mycroft emerging from Sherlock's room. Although the elder Holmes was outwardly composed and immaculate- his handmade Italian leather shoes gleamed so brightly that John briefly got spots in his vision- his pale complexion and the lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed his inner unravelling.

"Is Sherlock still asleep?" John asked.

"Practically comatose." Mycroft shook his head. "If he continues to sleep, John, I'm not inclined to wake him when it's time to go-" he winced "-downstairs. I don't think he'd handle the waiting and the uncertainty well."

John touched his hand. "If you don't wake him and the worst happens, he'll never forgive you."

"I know. It's just that he's so fragile right now. He's been practically living in the lab since we arrived, and if I said that he ate an entire sandwich during that time, I'd probably be overestimating."

John didn't doubt it. He'd seen the untouched food trays left outside the lab door, and Sherlock's bed in his assigned room had never been slept in until now. "Be that as it may, we can't make that decision for him."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Perhaps you're right." He paused. "John, I see that you just came down from the roof- you've got soot on your left shoulder and a pigeon feather in your hair- but would you mind terribly if we went back outside? I'd like to… talk. Alone."

John rubbed his shirt sleeve and batted at his hair, grimacing at the dirty feather that floated loose. "Of course. Let's go."

When they stepped onto the roof, the sun was nearing full strength and the city was loud with commuter traffic. Mycroft undid his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and raised his face skyward as if seeking solace in the brilliant warmth. "John," he whispered, sounding broken.

"It's going to be all right, you know." John hugged him from behind. "We're all worried- me more than anyone. But Sherlock and Alexei put everything into it. What could possibly come out of that collaboration except the best case scenario?"

"Waiting is always the worst part," Mycroft agreed. He placed his hands over John's. "I never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock would actually like a child, let alone share lab space with one."

John chuckled as he recalled the powerful working partnership the two had forged. "I'm not surprised, personally. Even if he weren't Alexei's uncle, how could Sherlock _not_ like someone who can recite the periodic table of elements backwards- in English, Polish, and Russian?"

That made the elder Holmes laugh. "I suppose that's true."

John manoeuvred in front of Mycroft and put his arms around his waist. "We've got four hours before the explosives team comes for me," he said softly. "Want to spend them up here?"

Mycroft drew him close. "I'm willing if you are."

As they kissed, John slid his hand into Mycroft's waistcoat, rubbing soothing circles over the other man's chest, which heaved beneath the fine linen shirt. They'd made love during the early morning hours, after Sherlock had fallen asleep, but John now longed for a repeat performance. He told himself that he was both expressing his love and soothing their mutual anxiety- _not_ leaving Mycroft something to remember him by.

Mycroft groaned and was reaching for John's belt when the rooftop door opened. Lowering their hands quickly, both men turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking paler and thinner than usual. His expression was neutral, but John and Mycroft instantly saw that beneath the granite face, the younger Holmes was terrified.

"I didn't realize that this was a private moment," he said stiffly, eying their rumpled clothing.

"It's not." John extended his hand. "Come here."

Sherlock approached slowly. He looked ghastly: his already-high cheekbones threatened to poke through his skin, which was a grayish white color, his lips were bloodless, and his eyes had an unnatural, feverish gleam. His purple silk shirt was mottled in places with chemical burns, and his trousers were badly creased. As he drew closer, John's nose told him that the younger man hadn't showered after getting up.

"I'm aware that I look and smell reprehensible," Sherlock said. "But a change of clothes and a bath is not high on my list of priorities right now. In fact, I'm dismayed that I slept for so long."

"It's all right," Mycroft said gently. "John and I decided we'd wait up here until it was time to go to the basement."

"A wise idea. This building has a superb laboratory and reasonably comfortable accommodations, Mycroft, but it's staffed by idiots who think too loudly. Just listening to their inane blather makes me want to go into my mind palace and never come out."

"I'll see what I can do about improving hiring practices."

"Hey." John squeezed his friend's shoulder. "You holding up all right?"

"With difficulty, I admit." Sherlock brushed a few greasy curls from his eyes. "I shall be glad when this is over."

"We all will," Mycroft said.

The loud screech of a car abruptly braking startled all three of them. Sherlock, instantly attracted to potential disaster, hurried toward the roof's edge. When he leaned over to look, John's heart lurched and he cried, "NO!"

Mycroft jumped and Sherlock turned quickly around. "John?"

"Please…" John squeezed his eyes shut. "Just come away from the edge. Seeing you there brings up certain memories."

The younger Holmes looked chastened. "I'm sorry. I forgot." He retraced his steps. When he was standing before John, whose heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, he said in husky, beseeching tones, "See, I came back to you. Now promise that you'll come back to me."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, putting one arm around his brother's frail shoulders and pulling him close. For once, Sherlock did not deride the gesture as sentimental nonsense. Exhausted behind his normal resilience, he continued to gaze at his best friend. John choked back tears as he gave his word.

* * *

><p>Eleven-thirty came too quickly.<p>

Accompanied by Mycroft, Sherlock, Lestrade, and an eight-man military escort, John rode the elevator to the building's lowest level, which was so tightly guarded that only Mycroft's electronic ID card gave them entry. Dr. Mortensen, a short Norwegian who participated in Elena's care, met them when they stepped out of the elevator and led the way to a closet-sized prep room that contained a wheeled bed and small table. A surgical tray with a glass bottle, alcohol wipes, and a long needle sat atop the latter.

Sherlock caught his breath loudly when John climbed onto the bed and laid back. Lestrade and Mycroft carefully flanked the younger Holmes, ready to restrain him if his self-control broke.

"Do you have any questions, Dr. Watson?" Dr. Mortensen asked gently.

John shook his head. "No, everything's been explained to me. Let's get this over with. I'd hate to miss tea time."

Mycroft's chuckle sounded more like a sob. Sherlock turned to the doctor, so nervous that even his voice vibrated.

"He'll only be in that damned chamber for half an hour, right?"

"That's correct, Mr. Holmes. His vitals will be monitored the entire time. After thirty minutes, the crisis will officially be declared over and Dr. Watson will be transported to his room to recover."

"I want to participate in the monitoring."

"We'll all be in the surveillance room, Sherlock." Mycroft squeezed his brother's arm. "And when John wakes up, I'll force you to accept a Knighthood."

"I'll help him force you, you stubborn sod." John fought to keep his voice even. "Sherlock, I don't know how to thank you."

Sherlock didn't cry, but his glassy eyes and constant shivering warned that he was nearing a nervous collapse. He acknowledged John's words with a jerky nod and stared at the floor.

Dr. Mortensen glanced at the clock. "I'm sorry if this sounds insensitive, but time is running out. We have to proceed."

"We understand," Mycroft said. He moved closer to the bed and grasped John's hand, smiling weakly. "I shall see you later this afternoon. Tea at three?"

John nodded. He heard Dr. Mortensen fiddle with the items on the tray, just before an alcohol wipe made his nostrils and skin tingle. Then the fine-gauge needle slid painlessly into his bicep. As he gazed into Mycroft's eyes, which were now an unearthly shade of blue, John's heart swelled. He managed to say, "I love you" before darkness took the world away.


	17. Chapter 17

Fog was everywhere, and it was cold.

John lifted his head off the pillow and stared about, confused. The mist was so dense that he couldn't see more than a foot in any direction, preventing him from recognizing his surroundings. Slowly, cautiously, he sat up.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

No answer. John peered over the edge of the bed and saw his own reflection staring back at him in the polished marble floor. So he wasn't outside then, although smoke-thick fog and icy chill weren't indoor elements.

What was happening?

Hearing a noise to his left, John turned to see a human-sized shape approaching through the mist. He called out again, but when it didn't answer, he shoved the blankets aside and slid to the floor, braced for a potential confrontation. When the newcomer finally emerged from the gloom, he exhaled loudly in relief.

"Elena. What the hell's going on? Where are we?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, John. You won't be here long."

John was struck by how radiant she looked. Her blonde hair was silkier than he remembered, and her skin glowed softly, like she'd just known love. Her white dressing gown shimmered like crushed diamonds.

"Listen to me," she continued. "There's not much time. You'll be waking up soon."

"I'm dreaming then?"

"In a manner of speaking." Elena circled the bed and stopped before him. Her green eyes reflected both peace and sadness. "John, when you see Alexei, tell him that I love him and that my response to his comment is 'You already have'."

"What comment? What's going on?"

But she was already moving away. Before disappearing back into the silky fog, she said gently, "You're going to live, but a word of advice, John. Don't ever be afraid of dying."

* * *

><p>John opened his eyes slowly. His lids felt impossibly heavy, but he managed to lift them long enough to see that he was in his room at the government safe house.<p>

His and Mycroft's room.

He closed his eyes and shivered, suddenly feeling cold. Someone rose from a chair next to the head of his bed and placed a wonderfully warm palm on his forehead.

"John?" It was Mycroft. "Nod if you can hear me."

John nodded slowly. "Cold," he whispered, licking his dry lips.

He heard Mycroft speak to someone in a low voice before warmed, thick blankets were tucked around him. After a few more minutes the shivering stopped and he only had time to murmur, "Thank you" before he was asleep again.

* * *

><p>The next time he woke up, Mycroft was still there. The elder Holmes was scanning a dossier and making notes in its margins, clearly struggling to concentrate. When he saw that John was awake, Mycroft quickly laid the dossier on the bedside table and took his hand. Again, John relished the warmth of his touch.<p>

"John?"

"Mycroft." His throat felt like parchment. Still half-asleep, he asked, "Where's Elena?"

Mycroft was pressing a call button, but nearly dropped it. "Elena?" he echoed, eyes widening.

"Yes. I saw her. I-" John paused, and sighed as his lucidity improved. "Sorry. Must have been dreaming."

"Yes," the elder Holmes said in an odd voice, "you must have been."

The door opened and Dr. Mortensen came in. "Dr. Watson," he said cheerfully, "good to see you back with us."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Just over four hours." He pulled a thermometer from the pocket of his lab coat, ran it across John's forehead, and eyed the reading with approval. Then he placed a blood-pressure cuff on John's arm, nodded at the results, and snaked a stethoscope under his pyjama shirt to check his heart.

"Everything looks fine," he declared, beaming. "I think it's safe to say that the danger has passed."

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, his grip on John's hand tightening. "Thank God. Sherlock and Alexei- they did it, John. They saved you."

"How do you feel?" Mortensen asked. "Any dizziness or nausea?"

John took a mental inventory. "Still a bit drowsy, but that's to be expected. Dry mouth is uncomfortable, though. Can I have some water, please?"

"Of course." Mycroft released his hand and turned toward the bedside table. John heard the cool tinkle of spilling ice before a plastic cup with a straw was offered. He was extremely thirsty, but knew enough to take small sips. When he'd had enough, he laid back on the pillow. Muted versions of relief, gratitude, and joy infused him; once the sedation wore off completely, John anticipated a maelstrom of strong emotions.

He was alive.

But he knew from his dream that someone else was not.

"When did Elena die?" he asked after Mortensen left.

Mycroft didn't ask how he knew. The elder Holmes simply lowered his gaze to the floor and said in a half-whisper, "Two hours ago."

John touched his wrist and ran a soothing thumb along the pulse point. Mycroft had never loved Elena, but he'd admired her, despite their adversarial positions. They'd also had a child together. He had to be feeling her loss more than he'd ever let on to anyone, even John.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft." John felt sadness creep into the mix of emotions jousting for dominance. Elena had worked diligently to save him, and even if her motives weren't entirely selfless, he was grateful. "Is Alexei all right?"

"Not at the moment, but he will be, in time. Gregory and Petra are with him right now, so I could be here when you woke up." Mycroft paused. "Petra volunteered to take him with her when she assumes her new identity, to keep him off the Consortium's radar. But I can't let him go, John. I can't. I realize that being connected to me entails a certain risk, but I can't bear the thought of him leaving my life so soon after becoming part of it. Sounds selfish, doesn't it?"

"Just the opposite." John linked their fingers together. "Alexei's got the brain of a Cambridge genius, but he's still a child, Mycroft. He's just lost his mother. I'm sure Petra cares about him, but he needs his other parent more than ever now."

"I know." Mycroft sighed, and then his face darkened. "The Consortium will be an ongoing threat. As long as Alexei is at the age where a certain malleability is statistically present, they'll attempt to retrieve him and make a weapon out of him."

"You won't let that happen. Nor will I."

Their eyes met. Then Mycroft leaned forward and brushed his lips against John's. Their foreheads touched.

"Little did I realize when I had you brought to that warehouse to discuss your connection to my brother that you would become my rock, John."

"I could say the same." When their lips parted, John remembered something. "Where's Sherlock?"

"In his room, resting. He fainted in the surveillance room, just before you were brought out." When John's face registered alarm, the elder Holmes raised his other hand. "Don't worry; he's going to be fine. His blood test revealed an alarmingly low prealbumin level, which isn't surprising considering how hard he drove himself. Dr. Mortensen has connected him to an IV to rehydrate him and provide liquid nutrients. He'll be furious with me later, but I requested that he also be given Valium to make sure he stays in place long enough to let the drips achieve some benefit."

"Smart move." John shook his head, throat tightening as affection for his relentless flatmate flooded him. "I'm surprised he hasn't gone into a hypoglycaemic coma before now. Silly bastard, even if I do owe him my life."

Mycroft gazed at John like he was beholding a miracle. "I meant what I said earlier. Sherlock's getting that knighthood. Perhaps I should bestow it on him now, while he's still half-silly with Valium."

"You'd better. Otherwise you won't have a hope in hell of his accepting it." John smiled as the first stabs of elation made it through his post-sedative haze. "Mycroft, my God. I'm going to live."

"Yes," the elder Holmes said slowly, a glow suffusing his worry-lined features with warmth. "Yes, you are." The mattress creaked as he leaned over and enveloped John in a powerful hug. "We've got the future again."

When John pressed his face into Mycroft's neck and inhaled that familiar, beloved scent, the tears broke through, and didn't stop until he was exhausted and sated. He wanted to stay that way forever, feeling joyfully weary and loved and supported, but Mycroft finally pulled back.

"I need to check on Alexei now," he said. "Try to rest, John. I'll return momentarily."

"Of course." John reached for a tissue from the bedside table and wiped his eyes. "Actually, would it be possible to bring him here?"

"I don't see why not. You wish to offer condolences?"

"Yes, and pass on a message." John told Mycroft about his dream. "I know it could all have been a side effect of the sedation, but I don't think so. I really believe she wanted me to give Alexei that message."

Mycroft smiled sadly. "So do I. I'll return with him shortly."

While he waited, John gazed at the ceiling. As a doctor, he'd comforted grieving relatives before. But he'd never told anyone that he had a message from their departed loved one. How would Alexei react? Would he be comforted, or would he get angry, thinking that John was telling him lovely lies to assuage his grief?

Alexei was so atypical that it was impossible to predict his response. He was years ahead of his age in intellect and maturity: chemists with years of experience had deferred to him in the lab, and he devoured computer codes like most teenagers played with Sudoku puzzles. But John had often seen him cuddling his mother in her hospital bed, eyes closed in childish pleasure as she stroked his auburn hair and crooned to him.

One thing was certain. John couldn't _not_ say anything. He owed Elena that much.

When the door opened again, Mycroft came in with Alexei. John could see right away that the boy was upset: his eyes were bloodshot and his naturally pale skin had a chalky hue. He gave John a fatigued smile.

"I was happy to hear that you're going to be all right."

"Thanks to you and Sherlock."

"You're a good man, John. Mum liked you. A lot." Alexei swallowed and his lower lip trembled, but the tears remained at bay. "You didn't deserve what the Consortium tried to do to you."

"Alexei," John said slowly, "first I want to say that I'm so sorry to hear about your mother's passing. She was an incredible woman. And she loved you enough to side with me against the Consortium, just to ensure that you had a future of your own choosing."

"I know."

"Now here's the other thing I want to tell you. Before I woke up, I had a dream. She was in it."

Alexei's eyes narrowed.

"She told me to tell you that she loved you. She also said that you made a comment to her and her answer to it was 'You already have'."

"Oh." Alexei caught his breath and swayed a bit. Mycroft took him by the shoulders and guided him gently toward the bed. The boy sat on the mattress, fingers digging into its edges, and said slowly, "Just after she… left… I promised her that one day I would make her proud."

"Now you know that you've already done so," Mycroft said, taking a seat beside him. Seeing how gently he rubbed his son's back, how he managed to be there for another's grief even while his own emotions were frayed, John experience a rush of love so intense that the breath stilled in his throat.

Alexei burst into tears. "I miss her so much!" He raised his head and regarded both of them desperately. "Will it ever stop hurting like this?"

John thought of the raw, smothering grief he'd experienced when he'd thought Sherlock was dead. How he'd tried to commit suicide. And how Mycroft had brought him from the shadows and restored his will to live.

"It may not seem like it now, but the answer is yes. Letting others help you through it is the key."

Mycroft drew Alexei close, and John shuffled down the mattress until he was on the boy's other side. Together they silently showed the grieving teenager that he was not alone. He may have lost his mother, but he had gained a family.


	18. Chapter 18

_Six months later_

John looked up from the forensics report when Alexei entered the office.

"You've got the translation done already?"

The teenager didn't bother to hide a smug grin. "It would have been done half an hour ago, but there was a deplorable amount of slang."

John smiled too. Modesty and tolerance for the common man had never been Holmes attributes.

The HWL (Holmes-Watson-Lestrade) detective agency was a huge success. It had officially opened after they'd all left the North London safe house, and the media had gone into a feeding frenzy. Separating undercover journalists from genuine clients had been difficult and sometimes required harsh measures: before leaving for her new life in Prague, Petra had broken a poorly disguised Kitty Reilly's nose. Gradually, the circus had abated and the agency took on one case after another.

John loved it. But right now, as he opened the folder of printouts that Alexei handed him, he was also missing Mycroft.

The elder Holmes was in North Africa, representing Britain's interests during a major amendment to a trade agreement. He was due back in three days, which couldn't go by quickly enough for John. During his absence, Alexei was staying with Sherlock and John at Baker Street.

The boy had been depressed for days after Elena's private burial near the Holmes family plot in the Yorkshire Dales. He'd eaten only when coaxed, and didn't sleep so much as collapse from exhaustion after pacing in his room for hours on end. John had tried to talk to him, but only got a pained smile for his efforts. Mycroft, although worried, said, "Sherlock was the same when our mother died. Alexei knows we're here for him. We have to let him set the terms of his recovery."

Letting a fourteen-year-old set the terms for anything sounded dodgy to John, but Mycroft was right. Alexei eventually came out of his self-imposed exile and calmly accepted his new circumstances. He'd always gone by his mother's surname of Nowak, and when he told Mycroft and John one day that he wanted to change it to Nowak-Holmes, they knew that he was ready to get on with his life.

John flipped through the pages Alexei had given him. Two days ago a wealthy woman had come to the office, worried that her eighteen-year-old daughter had left England with her Russian-born ex-husband. She'd found the girl's diary, but it was written in Russian, which she did not understand. Alexei, who went with Sherlock and John to the agency offices each weekday and spent five hours in an impromptu classroom with a tutor, had volunteered to translate the small volume, and completed the task surprisingly quickly.

"So what do you think?" John asked as he perused pages of complaints about co-workers, former friends, and other annoyances that were the bane of a young woman's life. "Did she leave willingly with her father?"

"Willingly, yes, but more quickly than she originally intended," Alexei replied, sitting in the chair opposite John's desk.

"How can you tell?"

"Obvious." He held up the leather-bound diary. "She didn't take this with her. No eighteen-year-old with this much resentment toward her mother would leave her diary around to be translated."

John couldn't hide his awe but, like Sherlock, Alexei revelled in the admiration. Once again, John forgot how young the boy was. He had the speech and mannerisms of an adult, and a seasoned one at that. Mycroft, with whom he lived, had admitted that Alexei was more intelligent and clear-headed than most of the people on his staff. Everyone who met him loved him- once they got over the initial shock of learning that Mycroft Holmes had a son.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking disgruntled. "Nothing interesting is going on here," he groused. "I'm going to Barts. Molly texted and said there's an unclaimed cadaver I can run some tests on."

"Did you take your iron supplements?" John asked.

"Yes."

"You wouldn't be lying just to get me off your back, would you?"

"I do frequently, but not in this instance." Sherlock nodded in the direction of his office. "The bottle's in my drawer. Go count them if you don't believe me and have nothing useful to do."

Sherlock had gradually recovered from his collapse at the safe house, but his blood work results still weren't completely normal, and John had insisted that he take supplements. Most were administered via injection, which John took care of each morning, but others had to be taken orally, and Sherlock was typically unreliable when it came to his health.

"He took them," Alexei said.

"Oh?" John arched one brow. "How can you tell?"

"When he's lying, he puts his right hand in his pocket. He's not doing that now."

Sherlock turned to his nephew slowly, looking both impressed and irritated. "I can't wait for you to enter your rebellious phase. Then you'll be the recipient of _my _deductive reasoning, and you won't like it. I will know when you've stayed out past your curfew-"

"So will anyone with a clock."

"Or gone off with a girl-"

"Maybe I'll go off with a boy then, just to make you feel stupid."

John laughed and shook his head. Sherlock and Alexei adored each other, and their verbal sparring, which sounded harsh on Sherlock's end and disrespectful on Alexei's, was a source of enjoyment for both of them.

Sherlock left for Barts, and Alexei went back into the small office that doubled as his classroom, where he played video games and waited for the hired tutor to return from lunch. Two burly men in business attire sat outside its door, tapping on their phones and tensing whenever a potential client came in. They were armed bodyguards from Mycroft's office, there to prevent the Consortium from getting Alexei back.

When John heard his stomach growl, he decided to take a break. "Greg," he called down the hall as he got up and put on his coat, "I'm going out for a bite. Need me to bring you anything?"

"No, thanks," Lestrade responded. "I brought some sausage rolls."

When John left the building, he paused on the pavement and breathed deeply. It was mid-November, and all the signs pointed to an early winter. Perhaps they would see snow today: the sky was a brackish shade of grey, and the weather report indicated the possibility of flurries.

As he walked down the street, heading for his favourite Dim Sum restaurant two blocks away, a public telephone started ringing. He glanced at it and kept going until he reached the intersection. While he waited for the signal to cross, another phone, this one only a few feet away, rang repeatedly.

John's heartbeat quickened, but not from fear. Every nerve in his body buzzed, saturated with the energy aroused by a now-distant memory. A memory of the last time this had happened, and the meeting that had followed.

The light changed colour and he crossed. As soon as he stepped onto the curb, a third public phone demanded his attention. Grinning from ear to ear, he stepped into the booth and picked up.

"Hello, John," a soft voice said.

"Mycroft." John knew he was glowing when a few passers-by did a double take. "Where… where are you?"

"Back early." A pause. "I've missed you."

"God, you too."

A black Audi pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and Anthea waved, looking amused.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson," Mycroft purred down the phone.

John smirked. "I don't have any choice, do I?"

"None at all."

John hung up, crossed the pavement, and slid into the back of the car, next to Anthea. She beamed at him before taking out her Blackberry and tapping contentedly away.

John Watson could not remember the last time he'd been so happy.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, he was walking across the same half-empty warehouse that had hosted his first meeting with Mycroft Holmes over two years ago. This time he wasn't limping or using a cane; his step actually had a spring in it.<p>

Mycroft was waiting. As John drew closer his smile broadened.

"You," the elder Holmes said, "are a delectable sight for my weary eyes."

John smiled too. "And you are a dramatic show-off."

"I decided that three weeks was long enough for our contact to be limited to calls and texts." Mycroft crossed the remaining distance between them, his expensive shoes slapping wetly against the damp cement floor. He enveloped John in a strong hug that was warm and smelled of Moroccan spice and Clive Christian No. 1.

John returned the embrace, relishing the feel of the fine wool coat beneath his fingers. "Yeah. I agree."

"Unfortunately, our respective obligations will continue to separate us like this from time to time." Gloved hands ran all over John's back. "We shall just have to make the most of these precious moments."

"Got anything in mind?"

"Yes." He lowered his hands and grasped the doctor's wrists playfully hard. "John Watson, I am taking you home with me and keeping you under personal observation. I believe you to be a serious threat to my libido."

"Are you kidnapping me?"

"Of course. It's Friday. You're mine for the weekend."

"Actually," John whispered as their lips met, "I'm yours for life."

THE END

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **This is the final chapter of _The Devil in Devon_, but not the conclusion of this Johncroft AU. A third story featuring Mycroft, John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Alexei will commence on August 11. Not sure yet what the title will be, but there's time to decide :)

Thanks to everyone who left lovely reviews and provided encouragement. Special thanks to my wonderful beta, **chasingriver**, without whom... not.


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